There’s something poignant about those green apples all crowded against the dirty window. Who knows where they’ve come from. Some bear wounds. Some grow yellow in the light. Some turn their labels to passersby: Look! I am this variety; it says so right here. Others keep their labels from sight. Maybe they are ashamed. Maybe they wish their skin was red. Or waxy.
It’s easy for me to persuade myself I don’t judge them for features as superficial as colour or texture. Sure, I have a preference for Macs. But that’s neither here nor there. My preference has no bearing on an apple’s inherent value. At their core, one’s as good as another.
I wince when I pass their window. I’m not indifferent to their squalor. And I would be lying if I didn’t admit that it afflicts me with a twinge of guilt when I consider how the glass separates us. Slowly, the filth accumulates around them, yet they gaze through the glass and see how a better world is possible, the world I occupy. My heart goes out to them. But I know I will pass on by.
This is a matter that’s bigger than me. It isn’t for me all on my own to change the way things are. You and I both know that when I pass this way tomorrow, the apples will still be there.