The persimmons

My aunt had given me nine persimmons last week. Each was perfectly orange and firm. There may have been a bruise or a scratch on a few, but for the most part they were healthy and smooth. I dutifully took them home with me and placed them in my refrigerator, arranging them into perfect rows of three.

Following that day, I would frequent my fridge to grab some soda or juice. Each time I opened the refrigerator, the light revealed the persimmons in their perfect rows, looking up at me hopefully, longing to be plucked from their refrigerated existence and fulfill that purpose for which they were grown. Yet each time, I would take a carton or can and close the door upon them in cool darkness.

Days went by. Their small leaves began to dry and fray. Their luster, though steadfast, began to dull. Yet each day they remained bright and hopeful. Soon, it had been over a week. I began to rationalize to myself, it's been over a week, they’re probably not good anymore. And so I went into a small wooden cabinet, took out one black plastic bag, and placed each one inside it. They were still smooth and cool in my hand.

I took the bag to the dumpster outside my apartment building and placed them gently on a pile of debris. “They’re just fruit,” I reminded myself as I closed the lid.

Later that night, I was peeling an orange, when I thought of the persimmons. My nine persimmons. Small. Cold. And alone.

I went to drop something else into the dumpster this morning. I opened the lid and saw nothing but a gaping empty bin. The persimmons were gone.