When Kent came home today he went back to the cherry trees to pick the last few. Nothing remained. In order for anyone to have stolen the last cherries they would have had to use a ladder.
St Augustine felt most guilty about stealing pears from a neighbor’s trees. He obsesses over it in his Confessions. I’m not sure he did any of us any favors by converting to Catholicism to assuage his guilt over pears. Bad enough he stole the damn things.
And it doesn’t sound like much. A few cherries. You could buy more with five bucks at the supermarket a block away than our two trees together produce in one season. The supermarket cherries don’t taste as good. And we didn’t wait all year for them, watching the blossoms, then the small hard fruits swell and change color.
Money doesn’t grow on trees. As if what grew on trees were free.
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