The Legend of Apple Brown Betty

There were twenty rungs. Not really that high. Not high, but high enough. From a distance, it hardly looked daunting. Just a short trip to the top followed by a delightful fall into the pool. Children did it all day. Obviously there was nothing to be afraid of. Only twenty rungs. From a distance.

From the bottom, however, it looked as if no sane person would do it. Not just to climb them, but to jump. A sane person would fear the fall. Would tread carefully along the platform, worried for the damage that might result from an imperfect step beyond the guard rail. To purposely allow oneself to leave the platform and dive into the pool was madness.

Yet, children did it every day. Every day children climbed the twenty rungs as a line of other children waited below. One rung at a time, hardly thinking, they would make their way to the spectacular view over the community pool, walk out beyond the rail, take a deep breath, and thrust themselves over the edge into the depths below.

Occasionally, it is true, some youngster would dare to climb before they were ready. They would stand in line, afraid they could not do it, stepping forward every minute or so, never sure if they would dare to conquer their fear. That youngster would finally arrive at the bottom of the ladder, put their foot upon the first rung, and wait for the splash of the fearless child before them. They would then climb the ladder, one rung at a time, not daring to look below for fear the view would rob them of their courage. Once atop the platform, that occasional child would finally see what they so feared, the mad distance their body was about to fall. They would look over the edge of a rail as children shouted taunts from below.

She often wondered if it took more courage for that occasional child to turn around, to descend the ladder, to publicly share their failure one rung at a time as they descended into the chorus of taunts from below. No doubt it did, though it was a courage not generally recognized by the mob, always hungry for a new victim.

Courage, of course, takes many forms.

As she closed the distance from hardly looked daunting to no sane person would do it, she wondered what sort of courage she had that day.

Atop the platform, she took her time, ignoring the taunts that undoubtedly rose up from below, but which her mind refused to acknowledge. She cared little of what others thought of her. For the shame of turning back. For the pain of diving forward. She cared little for the view, for the fear, for the anxiety that always accompanies a strange journey. She cared only for the pain that would not cease, the voice that berated her without pity, the gut wrenching terror of who she was, what she had done. For, when there is no chance of redemption, no hope of forgiveness, only the knowledge, deep and true, of how awful you really are, will always be, what is there left to do but jump?

When they found her body the next morning, it was wet with the leaf strewn remnants of the fall rains, three inches of water covered in a thin layer of ice that would melt by lunchtime.

The autopsy of her soul showed significant overgrowth throughout, untended and nearly impenetrable.