The world is a rotten apple, lying in the dirt, and we’re all a bunch of greedy little maggots, consuming everything as quickly as we can. Once our guts are full with the soft, chewy flesh of the spoiled fruit, and the apple is destroyed, spare maybe a seed or stem, we’ll advance from our larval stage, transforming into flies.

At this point, we’ll realize that there’s an entire orchard around us, a universe, with a multitude of other apple trees, each bearing fruit. But with short memory and simple minds, we’ll look down and notice some grubby little maggots, forgetting our own beginnings and transcendence. Feeling superior now, we scoff at how naive they are, with their inability to wriggle further in life and remove themselves from the filthy ground.

Just then, an immigrant worker, tired and sun-drenched, sweat running down the back of her tanned neck, seeking shade, will sit down and lean against the bark of a slender tree trunk and let out a deep sigh. Unable to appreciate her beauty and strength, we’ll pester the poor girl, hoping to sip the salty sweat from her cheeks, forearm, or legs. A few moments go by, and as she brushes us off gently, a man’s voice hollers in the distance, footsteps approaching down the dusty row of trees. She stands up quickly, grabs the wicker handle of her basket again, diverts her eyes from the angry white face of the foreman, and continues picking apples, each one a small world, gracefully saved from a wretched fate by the hands of a strong woman.