Just Plain Unsweet

They sit on the leaves as if they are to be served, those acorns. So still in nature, hiding in their impressive shells impervious to the sweeping winds. Little sentinels of the soil maybe one day becoming guardians of the sky. How they inspire dread. Their dark brown color and smooth features only a guise to a passerby. It could be the alcohol, but every time a batch of acorns patters down the roof, I cringe. Chalkboards with nails or rubbing cotton together never compares to the horrifying clank on my car when I pass under those oaks to rehab. I chose to live here though; maybe it was because of that time, because of their bitter taste.

It was only my first hiking trek, and I tested it on the Appalachian Mountains in the fall. The weather was enthralling; the warm leaves swept away the brilliant blades of grass and the cool breeze shook my articles of clothing. Then I fell, straight down the side of the mountain, grey rocks now sparkled with red dew as I fell. I forgot, everything, I awoke to their almost childish gaze. The acorns. I waited, nothing happened, everything was new. I stayed, the acorns stayed. Things popped up shortly after: how to make fire and shelter, drink water, and hunger. One thing was always a mystery though, are acorns edible? Plenteous and easy to retrieve, of course I ate them. They were bitter and caused my stomach to churn, but I am weak.

Time passes, but the sting still lingers. I am making improvements, I don’t eat them anymore. Alcohol’s bitterness sustains me now, and they say maybe one day I will stop being bitter all together.