Apple Butter

My reward?…

-A porch smoke, a few more sips of the longest glass is wine I’ve every consumed (even though I’ll probably throw most of the remainder out).

-Another hour or so of canning, water-bathing and marking jars.. a task I’ll have to shove into my already busy, stressful day tmrw.

-Smiles on my friends and families faces when I gift them a jar.. when they get a bite of the homemade deliciousness that only work, apples, sugar, water, (a touch of lemon) and heat over time, can provide.

-The salvage of a failed Apple fruiting from Grandma’s 70yr old apple tree. One he can no longer see to care for properly.

-The knowledge that I did my best and didn’t let the gifts of the Earth go to waste, regardless of whether or not they were perfect..(though I definitely gave up the last seven or eight apples because the Crock-Pot was full and I just couldn’t do anymore -not to mention the bag full I let spoil trying save every single salvageable one and make time to process them).

-Likely, the inability to get up and go to work in the morning.

-A big cry and lots of introspection over the whole ordeal, my stubbornness, a super tear-jerking musical episode of Grey’s. Just a taste of that here:

My reward is: not having anyone to share it with. No one who understands and feels me completely.. who unwaveringly accepts me, supports me, and wants the things I do with the same gusto. Even when it is pointless. Even when it doesn’t make sense..

Because, really, who in their right mind picks up a shit ton of half grown defective, marred fruit and burdens their selves to make something smooth, sweet, and wonderful from it?

Me. Just me.  Because I’m insane and can’t do anything the easy way..

(you know like buying apples from the store that are fairly uniform in size, don’t have bug holes, and would fit on my peeler/corer so that my workload would be cut in half -at least).

And so I email a long lost love. And I miss him.
B/c he is the closest I’ve every felt to being understood.

And even that. Being understood. It escapes me.

I wonder, fairly often, if I’m simply more messed up that I originally thought.

But here I am. Writing.

Trying to make enough sense to get my feelings across.

I just need to be able to connect.

To be loved, wanted, and understood by another human being.

I didn’t know what to do with myself or how to say what I felt, or explain what the hell it is I’ve gone through tonight.

So, this must suffice.

Perhaps, I will move to bed now and try to rest.

Does anyone feel me?