Fiction: Why Wouldn't It Ripen?

It has been three weeks - three weeks of going and coming, and yet nothing has changed. I passed by it this morning, yet she is still full of greens. Only that her greens have now multiplied. But that isn't my desire, I want her greens to be yellow and her yellows to yield to gravity's pull. I want her yellows to litter the floor, like grains of sand on the beach side. I have seen her friends in other places. Many have yellowed, but not hers. And every day my apprehension worsens. I want to lose hope. Should I pluck the greens? I almost jumped the gun when I remembered my late puppy, Sparkle. She was the finest of her mum's progeny, but she died of her guardian rashness. Because I weaned her abruptly in infancy, she grew sick and died. Oh! How much pain tears couldn't wash away. I want no such fate for her greens. No! I hate to see her greens brown, rot and waste away. So, I would wait. For a few more days, I would wait. My eyes set on her, I wouldn't let my patience thin out yet. If days turn to weeks, and weeks to months (hopefully it doesn't take this long) I would keep my hope alive. At least she is alive, pregnant, and breeding more greens. And where there is life, hope exists. Surely, her greens would one day be yellow, and when it does, my patience would have many rewards.

One thing I noticed though is how many have stayed away. Indeed, a pregnant woman is no man's delight, except her lover's perhaps. So far, the humans on land haven't come to pluck, and neither have the birds of the air come to perch and peck. How, and why does the green keep intruders at bay? Perhaps the colour isn't too enticing, or the size is too miniature. Is it the hardness? Softer than a rock, but hard nevertheless. Or because it firmly clings to its stalk, and won't fall to the ground? It seems the greens love their mother so much that you hardly see them on the ground. Or perhaps it's the acidic taste, this I remember from the last fruiting season. Her yellow friends don't enjoy this peace. Day and night, they are courted by many unrelenting suitors. Hurled with stones, battered with sticks, and forcefully climbed by unrestrained humans. Because they can't say no, or because the no isn't heard, they are repeatedly raped by the actions that spring from man's desire for food.

Though not whores, life subjects them to such a cruel fate. And when I remember that her greens would grow bigger and softer, that they would yellow and eventually fall to the ground, I wail for my dear. Herein lies my dilemma, I am in love and I no longer know what I want. So far, she has delayed her expected day of delivery; maybe she hears. I hope she hears the conflicting desires of my heart, and to know that whichever decision she makes, she has my unflinching support.

And just like my tree, dear reader, do not be quick to place yourself under pressure to churn out results like your peers might be doing; instead, dig your wells in silence because you can be sure that someone somewhere is in full support of your baby steps.