Cherries in my Bowl

Is my bowl of cherries half full or half empty? I have counted them numerous times, inspected their rich, ruby roundness for flaws. I have eaten none. I have neither filled the bowl nor emptied it.

I adored the youthful flush of cherry-blossomed youth, the beauty taken for granted. No fear of falling, just gracefully fluttering to the ground, knowing I could rise again with ease.

As I gather up the succulent cherries, I name them. They may have had names in the past, like Hope, Opportunity, Fear. Never Regret, life has always been far too short to entertain him. I no longer pluck the names impulsively from air so thin it is sometimes hard to breathe.

I select them carefully, as if I were choosing from an expensive box of chocolates. Each name is savoured, held in my mouth for a time, sometimes swallowed, the stones have been removed, of course, occasionally spat out like a tasteless projectile. I cannot share those that I keep. You will have to find your own. I will not share my cherries with just anyone. But if I place one into your palm, will you hold it for me? Or will you consume it?