(painting by Kazumi)

MELODY FRUIT

A Parable for Parents 

On all the small planet of Jesera, Lissanda was the only kingdom that could grow Melody Fruit. Kings and queens, princes and princesses, dukes and duchesses placed orders months in advance for Melody Fruit. The farmers of Lissandra grew prosperous and efficient in producing enough Melody Fruit to satisfy the entire Jesera market.

Young Orans had learned the art of growing Melody Fruit from his father who had learned it from his father who had learned it from his father as far back as generations could remember. He knew well the signs of healthy fruit on the sprawling vines. First the green buttons which budded into five petal, sky blue blossoms. Fertilized by the honey bees of Lissandra, these flowers produced small orange bumps which swelled like balloons to become glimmering orange orbs the size of basket balls. After one hundred days, one by one, ripe Melody Fruit would ease away from the vines. Then farmers like Orans would pack them ever so carefully and fill their orders. Kings and queens, princes and princesses, dukes and duchesses would carefully lift the Melody Fruit from its soft packing material and would toss them skyward where they would be caught by the winds and gently open into five-pointed orange stars. As they opened, the most exquisite melodies would burst from the opening fruits--melodies of dance and song, of sun and laughter, of scented pine and cinnamon and of glittering, glistening rivers.

Occasionally a strange twist of fate struck a Melody blossom and the fruit budded into a wizened black bump. If left to grow, no glimmering orange orb would ever develop but only a wrinkled, misshapen ball. Back as far as anyone could remember, farmers plucked these aberrations from the vines and threw them aside. As they did so, the stricken Melody Fruit would open, emitting a dirge of death and darkness, fear and despair, end without hope.

Orans had never seen a stricken Melody Fruit fall from the vine of its own accord. He wondered if it would happen. So one year when one of his vines developed a stricken fruit, he did not pluck it early but allowed it to grow. Every day he watched it, becoming more accustomed to its darkness and its wrinkles as the days drifted on. As his workers tended the vines, they would remark to him, "Sir, there is a stricken fruit on that vine. Shall we pluck it off?"

"No," Orans would say.

"But it is stricken. It is taking nourishment from the other Melody Fruit."

"I do not see them being harmed," Orans noted.

"They must be harmed. Surely some of the vine's strength is going into a fruit that will be forever tainted."

"I want to let it grow until it leaves the vine itself," Orans would explain.

"But why?"

"Because that is the way it was with Melody Fruit before man began to cultivate them."

The workers would shrug and move on to their tasks, certain that their employer was, perhaps, a bit crazy.

Every day Orans came to check his vines. Every day the Melody Fruit grew, the orange ones into larger and larger balloon-like, glittering fruit and the wizened one into larger and larger shriveled fruit. Yet Orans sensed that the stricken fruit was even more different than it appeared. When Orans touched the shriveled fruit, his soul shivered with emotions he had never felt before. They puzzled him.

After one hundred days, the fruits gently pulled away from their vines. The fully ripe orange orbs were plucked, packed, and shipped until only one wizened, dark ball was left in Orans' field. As the sun was dipping low in the sky and the workers were departing, Orans picked the wrinkled mass from the earth and studied it. Surely it was a Melody Fruit. Here and there he could see glimmers of light and slathers of orange. He held it long, feeling the inexplicable magic of its difference. Then, as if from the Melody Fruit itself, Orans heard a silent command. "Release me."

"Be released," he called as he tossed the shriveled ball skyward where the winds could catch it. Gently the dark skin opened into five sagging points and a song poured out. The melody was one that Orans had never heard before, not from any of his other Melody Fruits or those of his father or grandfather. It was a song of pain conquered by joy, of despair drowned in victory, of death reborn into life. The song surrounded Orans and pierced to his soul like a golden arrow, searing there virtues he had long desired but never attained--patience, courage, trust, love.

Gradually the Melody Fruit dissipated into the air as all Melody Fruits do. The song faded as all melodies fade. When all was silent and the sky clear, nothing remained of the Melody Fruit. Yet in Orans' soul for forever were patience, courage, trust, and love.

Orans would never be the same.

copyright 2008 Madeline Pecora Nugent

May not be reproduced without permission of the author

My Child, My Gift: A Positive Response to Serious Prenatal Diagnosis

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