There are two granny smith apples in the basket, slightly bruised and aging out. The thought of eating one sets my teeth on edge. I don’t know why I buy them. It’s a repeating pattern with me and fruit. I have unfettered access and there’s room in my cart, but is that reason enough? I sit with the ethereal miracle of vibrant green, tangerine, and sweet potato in the loosely woven wicker that holds things together for now. Minutes and hours fall from the heavy sky. I keep watch, and in my own way, I pray. There’s tea steeping and a bag of chips open in case God comes by. She likes the salt. I like the company. I try to be accepting, not greedy, not demanding, not intrusive, not filled with expectations. Just quiet and receptive. But it sucks. It’s harder than winter. The God small in each of us is to blame for tart apples and the long seasons of discontent. We are unskilled at listening, even less skilled at loving. I hear God in the hallway, dragging something behind her walker. It must be laundry day. Well, I can’t wait forever. I have errands and obligations. I understand how the self-important God of billions might ignore me now and then, but the laundry lady? When God embodies thus, the roles reverse. She’ll ask me for quarters and for help folding her flannel sheets.