An Avocado Tree

On my last shopping trip to Meijer, I caught myself taking more than five minutes to pick out five avocados for five dollars, a deal I was too excited about. I picked them up, one by one, starting with the top crate. I know this system: the freshest produce is always in the top crate, but there's the rub. With avocados, it takes touching every black blog--beginning midway down the top crate) to find the mix right mix of firm, thin tip and full bottom that gives between your palm and fingers as they try to wrap around it. A woman was watching me. She was short, with a tiny waist that seemed crushed by her coat's belt. She was quiet, watching and waiting. I was being studied. I nestled my rejected avocados back into their bins, like a nurse putting a newborn into... ok, that image doesn't really work. The nurse wouldn't put a baby into a tub of other sleeping babies. You get the idea. The silent woman stepped closer; I slunk away, feeling her watch me. Then I watched her--first poking lightly, then picking up and squeezing the fruit from tip to toe with a glance in my direction. I like to think that I helped the woman make a good selection for her guacomole. It is equally likely that she assumed I was a mystic, pulling meaning from the rough skin.

For the past two weeks, I have eaten at least half of an avocado a day. The process is therapeutic. Depending on my most recent emotion, I can tear it in two and rip the pit away, gnawing away the fruit that still clings to it, or I can slip in the blade, slide it around the pit and remove the bulb gently. In this case, I leave the green bits clinging to the brown core. I save its dignity, let it rest on top of the garbage. If my fiancé were here, he would brave the weather to drop the organic waste into our "compost heap," a tire full of trash that rabbits eat from. If I am patient enough, I scoop the flesh from the dark exterior with one quick move of the spoon.

I have heard that green is a soothing color. I believe this when I cut the avocado into cubes. The cutting board is green, and I consider the double dose a bit like Prozac, without the habit-forming side effects. Maybe this is the reason I can't wait to put the avocado into a bowl or on a salad or into an omelet. I stand at the counter and stab the pieces with my knife and drop them into my mouth.

After a few rounds of 5 for $5, I began to feel guilty about all of the wasted pits. What happens to them, or could happen to them? Where will the lil' guys tossed into the neighborhood rabbits' feeding pit be in 30 years? As it turns out, they would be a tree, dropping vitamin B6, C and A on the (by now millions of) bunnies.

I am redoing my third grade potato experiment. I am jabbing toothpicks into the next avocado pit I suck and scrape the fruit from. I am letting it rest above a small cup of water until it sprouts. I am rejoicing at the life I have created, because it will be good, good, very very good like the Bible-school song says creation is. And the new tree will rejoice, and we will both be made holy--the little tree more so than myself. [S]he will be replanted. In our Jesus planter/toothbrush holder.