under the dead fig tree

I am Esther Greenwood in Plath’s The Bell Jar. I stood right in front of the tree, looking up at the figs in confusion. They all looked plump and sweet. Not knowing what to choose, I picked everything. Yet as I chewed the figs, I realized they were not yet ready. I tried to keep them in a basket, hidden beneath the darkness of my bed, waiting for them to ripen. Time passed, and it was too late when I remembered they were there. When I came to check, they had all rotted away into decay.

The bright passion I once burned with in childhood now glowed dim. I had all the potential to become better, the talent that would help me make my way in the world, yet I kept it hidden away. I let it sit in the corner, hoping I could pick it up once it was ready, not knowing that at any moment, maggots could swarm around its flesh, leaving me with nothing.

I’ve become a failure—a wasted potential of what could have been. I thought I could be everything I wanted, that time would sweeten my seeds, ripening them for consumption. Yet years passed, and they remained tucked away. I never realized I had lost them until there was nothing left to retrieve.

I searched for the figs that were once there as I died of starvation. I reached my hand through the endless void, touching nothing. Everything I once had had fallen out of my grip.

Now, all I can do is look back at the once healthy fig tree, its fruits dangling along the branches, standing strong in the backyard. Time passed, and the tree died down, unable to produce any more figs. I stood beneath it again, staring at its bare twigs as I swirled in hunger, rotting away together with them.