Fiction by Michael Mark
The funeral was stodgy and the minister had as much to say about the real Johnny as I did about the real Woodrow Wilson. He talked about living brightly like it was a certain kind of apple—like there were many types of apples in the orchard, but you knew the good ones when you saw them, and that’s how we’d known our Johnny. But the way the minister said it made me think he’d only ever studied supermarket apples. He’d never gotten his hands dirty, never plucked an apple directly from the tree.