I preferred to think that the tree had not been touched by human hands. Instead, I wanted to imagine a type of botanical, seasonal transition: that the green blood had crystallized into silver, gold and scarlet. And when the joy could no longer be hidden, the blossoms appeared in delicate explosions. Their thin metallic skins would shine with a clear complexion - in colors that were pure and inspirational.
It would be impossible not to pluck this Christmas fruit from the tree that dared to bloom in the late autumn, with winter peering over the Advent horizon like a mischievous child.
They would be irresistible. They would have a scent like an expectant kitchen, full of spices that had traveled through history from the misunderstood continents, the lands of Western fear, of medieval confusion. They would taste like snow falling from the festive clouds: a profusion of crystals blowing through the white air in blissful geometry.
And inside of each one would lie a seed, a tiny window looking into the heart of the fruit. The pulp would be flavored with these sweet prisms – with the alluring light that turned the orchards of this holiday crop into a starry countryside.
And now this tree was heavy with their radiance. But I decided not to pick the glittering baubles from their branches. I chose a different harvest. I left the tree and its glittering yield behind, knowing that I would be enjoying its shining feast whenever I closed my eyes.