Red Apples

The brilliant red apple gleamed against the green of the soft, welcoming leaves. I smiled calmly and sighed, releasing the last of my worries and fears. The scent of the orchard spilled into my veins and cleared my head. The faint rustling of the leaves rose like the waves of the ocean within me. It felt almost tangible, like an object I could hold and shape to my desires. In front of me sat a young girl, basking in the sun below the tree. The long shining hair tied in ribbons below her ears bounced playfully in the wind. On her lap she held a perfect little pile of red delicious apples. She radiated triumph with a simple look of happiness on her face. I glanced upward knowing what I would see scaling the narrow and fragile branches of the apple tree. Like an agile monkey the little boy leapt from limb to limb, grabbing apple after apple and carefully lowering himself to drop them in the lap of the laughing children surrounding the tree. I could almost picture the tree stretching a branch or shifting its weight to guard the little boy from a dangerous jump or miscalculated step. The orchard knew us better than we knew ourselves. It was a part of each moment, each breath and each memory. The little girl with the ribbons knew this- just like I know this, and my days in the orchard have long come to an end.
A call came from the end of the orchard and the little girl sighed the sigh of a much older woman. As the sun began to bend the shadows of the twisted branches, the girl gathered her days catch in the little basket at the base of the tree. Many of the other children began to gather their baskets, too, but an air of reluctance tangled with the sweet smell of the orchard. I remembered this time for myself, remembering the feeling of loss that a few hours away from our haven would stir within us. For an outsider this might seem strange and irrational, our connection to the land and this place. But in my heart I could still conjure the very smells and the very sight of it because it had become part of me.
The call came again and the girl smoothed her hair, straightened her dress and grabbed her basket. The wise young children exchanged knowing looks as if to comfort each other as they stepped out of the orchard, rejoining their parents and leaving the world where time stands still. The parents are ordinary, pragmatic and simple. I wonder if they remember the things the orchard once stirred within them; if they could still hear the soothing whistle of the breeze weaving through the branches whispering secrets into our ears; if they could remember the delight of watching a bud slowly grow from a green pod to the brilliant, rounded apples waiting to be gathered. But I know they cannot. It happens to the best of us one day or another. We simply wake up to find a house busy with excitement and a day packed with priorities and tasks, and soon enough we forget to listen for that low hum of nature or to stop and admire the birds- till an apple becomes an apple and an orchard is nothing but an orchard. I know that, everybody knows that. And though we know this to be true somehow we still forget to listen for the hum.
The parents scold the little girl with the ribbons for being so long in the orchard. I follow mechanically but my thoughts are far from here. They float somewhere among the leaves and the fruit, climbing up and up with the little monkey boy, swinging here and jumping there. Drifting among my friends and their ancient and protective limbs, I feel myself being swiftly pulled away from this place that I long for. In the distance I begin to hear the sure whooshing sound of morning. It grows louder and louder as it nears and I grow desperate trying to escape it- but it is inescapable.
Suddenly I am awake in my bed. I take a moment to realize that the whooshing I dreamt of is the early morning traffic seeping through my window. I press my eyes together wishing that I could will myself back to sleep- back to the orchard and back to my world. My aching limbs remind me of things I would rather forget. I look over at the chair next to my hospital bed where my daughter has fallen asleep.

She no longer wears ribbons in her hair.