THE RETELLING
Celia Scully In the beginning, there was the Word, the garden and the apple of our conceits. Anon. 1. Sturdy little apple tree adorned in ruby red, when you were cast from Eden, through no fault of your own, did you think to ask, like Job, “Why, Lord, me?” No. In free fall, shock and fear, there was no time for such. But I will tell you my story; let you be judge and jury: was justice done when all were punished for the curiosity of one? But weren’t there two? True. But hear me out. 2. Life was simple until that couple came along— he— a bit of a dullard, naming all in sight, content to do as he was told; she—the lively, inquisitive one, bent on self-improvement and enjoying life to boot. Why the Lord chose to test them, I cannot fathom. Did He, who knew all things, not know how badly it would end? Why root a tree mid-garden, whose fruit a sacred-secret held, then say, “Don’t touch; don’t eat,” and point at me?
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