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Life According To Pear

How will you judge my worth?

By Kerie AdamsonPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
8

Can you believe he just left me here? Alone, resembling half of what I once was. I’m resting on a plastic chair in the far corner of a carriage in the gap between the wall and where the soft blue cushion of the seat begins. The child who left me here is long gone. I wonder if anyone will notice me and more importantly, if noticed, how will I be judged?

My journey began in a lush, green orchid in Goulburn Valley, Victoria, Australia. Originally, my ancestors were born and raised in Belgium but trade became popular so they were shipped by boat to Australia in the hope of putting down roots in rich, lush soil. An environment conducive for a better life of growth and development. A new land to share our sweet goodness.

I grew up on a Bosc Pear Tree that had been baring fruit for the past thirty years. Its roots well established. I received the best of care. Nutrient rich soil, regular water, beautiful cool weather and a protective tree full of family. For one hundred and thirty days, I was nurtured and cherished. Protected by my home’s limbs and foliage. I emerged from a branch as a small seed, growing into a small white flower before maturing into a firm, green Bosc Pear. As time elapsed my exterior began to take on a brown tinge and finally, my firm skin became a rich, textured cinnamon colour. I was so proud of the colour of my skin. So proud of my home. I was so happy and content.

One early morning when the sun had just begun to rise, gently kissing the horizon with its warmth and yellow glow, the machines roared to life. Startling all of us, the machines were manoeuvring large, square boxes through the corridors between our trees, dropping them every couple of metres apart. Shortly after, men and woman wearing aprons and carrying ladders descended upon the orchid and I watched as my fellow community of pears were removed from their homes and placed into pouches in the front of the aprons. Myself included. It was utter chaos, I could hear the whaling screams of my kin and I was scared. What was happening? Why was this happening? Where were we going? I was confused and frightened.

I found myself dumped in one of the large boxes along with hundreds of my community pears. Stripped from our roots, we lay in the box for what seemed like hours and hours. The wailing screams became quiet sobs and eventually, silence. I could hear the machines again when I could no longer see any light penetrating through the cracks above me so I assumed the sun had gone to bed. Our box was picked up by one of those machines and moved. I don’t know where.

After some time, the roaring machines again caught my attention and the light from a new day began to brighten as my fellow pears above me were removed from the box. I was plucked from the box and placed on a moving belt. I saw the two green pears in front of me get pushed out to the right but I was pushed out to the left and landed in a box full of cinnamon coloured pears, anxious and afraid. The box was soon sealed and we were moved to a cold place. Colder than the orchid. It was dark and I was cold. None of my fellow pears knew what was happening to us and I felt confused and isolated. What was to become of me?

We were in that sealed box for days and moved from place to place, I can’t tell you for exactly how long but when the lid was removed, we were inside a building and placed on a shelf. On our right were a group of bright Red Anjou pears and on our left were the Green Bartlett’s. The lights above were bright and before long, the hustle and bustle of people began to surround and meander around us. Many stopped and picked me up, smelling me and squeezing me and returning me to the shelf. In the hands of a woman, I heard a little girl squeal, ‘Eeewww mum, not the brown one, they are yucky,” and I was thrown back on the shelf.

Over the course of the day, many of the pears around me were placed into paper bags and taken away. The rest of us remained and I, for the first time in my development, learned that even though I am a pear, people don’t see me as a pear. They see me only as a soft, brown pear. And because I am a soft, brown pear, apparently I have no worth. I am ‘yucky’. People don’t like me which is why I am still here, rejected. If I were a soft green pear, I would be more worthy and more popular. People would like me. If I were a soft, red pear I would be unusual and unique. Some people might like me but some people would not.

As I have grown and developed, my skin has changed shades, as have the textures and tastes of my flesh. The nutrient rich and nourishing home I grew up in ensured that the goodness inside of me matured and sweetened, designed to be respected and enjoyed by all. So how am I deemed to be such an unworthy pear when no one has bothered to experience what I have to offer on the inside? I’m not soft and brown on the inside, I’m beautiful and succulent and sweet. I have multiple, delicious experiences to offer, raw, grilled, baked or poached. I am so much more than a soft brown pear, aren’t I?

As I contemplated these thoughts, feeling angered and judged, I was plucked off the shelf and handed to a child of about four years old. He held onto me in his little palm and skipped beside his mother on the way to the train station. He entered the train and sat in the far corner of the open carriage and his mother reminded him to eat his pear. He turned me around in his hands, trying to work out where to begin. He rotated me on my side and took a bite. He took two more bites and wiped my sweet juice from his chin with his sleeve. After turning me around a few more times, the boy’s mother collected his hand to alight the train and he threw me into the corner of the seat and left.

Is this where my journey ends? Alone and half the pear I once was. I have been removed from my beautiful home, placed in a box, given a label and judged by many. Only one has bothered to see what I have to offer on the inside but abandoned me for reasons I will never understand. What will become of me? I lay here, half a pear, wondering if anyone will ever see my worth?

Short Story
8

About the Creator

Kerie Adamson

Mum and passionate Educator wanting to develop my writing skills to engage and entertain readers.

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