The Mills of the Gods Grind Slowly

October 1953 Kenny (9) trudges home from school, down the alley toward his backyard. Next door, the old Lebanese guy’s fig trees droop with succulent fruit. Mouth watering, Kenny scales the rickety wire fence, leaning backward at a 45° angle, dangles forward atop, plucks two figs. Purple. pulpy, delicious. Only two. He’ll never notice.

October 2023 Kenneth (79), marketing, spies and buys figs. Mouth watering, he eats two. Purple, pulpy, delicious. Nestles the package into the fridge.

Next day. "Honey, where’d all my figs go?”

"The grandkids were here. Bring enough for everybody or get used to only having two.”