who is responsible for the suffering of your mother?

It started with an apple. They told me this when I was very young. They planted pictures of rounded hips, soft skin, seeds you can't taste because they're poison. I thought of old men on wrap-around porches in rocking chairs, full bushels beside them, a cup in each hand. They don't eat until their wives cook, hands dusty with flour, sweeping a bit of spilled cinnamon from the counter with two damp fingers. My mother cut apple slices for me to take to school in my lunch. They left the inside of the bag dewy, like breath on a spoon you pull out of the drawer smudged. I never ate my apple slices. The air turned them brown and soft. I thought of rust. I threw them away but kept the bag, folded it three times and brought it home, my lunchbox smelling of apples. On afternoons like this, I am planted. I have roots growing from poison to fruit, can not lift my feet without pulling some earth loose. A stranger told me once that I taste like blueberries. I looked straight through his eyes and wondered how he knew. In each of his pupils was an apple pie, the steam rising and leaving dew across his forehead. I thought about his wife, her flour-dusted hands, as his fingers reached toward my skin.