Susan Rothbard

At the market today, I look for Piñata apples, their soft-blush-yellow. My husband brought them home last week, made me guess at the name of this new strain, held one in his hand like a gift and laughed as I tried all the names I knew: Gala, Fuji, Honey Crisp—watched his face for clues—what to call something new? It's winter, only tawny hues and frozen ground, but that apple bride was sweet, and I want to bring it back to him, that new. When he cut it, the star inside held seeds of other stars, the way within a life are all the lives you might live, each unnamed, until you name it.