—an excerpt—
This is the story of a tree.
Not a giving one, nor a particularly special one. It didn’t make for a prized choice come December 1st and was too young to spark awe among those who walked past it, unlike those old-growth uncles out west. It never had a poem written about it, not even a one-line simile, and no one ever paused underneath its branches, thankful for its shade on a hot day. In fact, only one person ever looked at it.
This tree was a simple fruit tree. An apple tree, to be more specific (variety: Gala). It stood unnoticeable among all the other Gala apple trees lined up in Jackson’s orchard. The kind so common that if you asked a child to draw an apple tree, the result would look somewhat like it— much like the mundane bungalow that same child would summon when asked for a house would vaguely resemble one of the homes that furnish Second Street.
It did have one unique feature, this tree: it was a late bloomer. Six years and a winter had passed since its seedling days and it had yet to bear a ripe apple for Jackson to pack up and sell. It had yet to yield anything at all, safe for some pretty leaves that turned a warm yellow in the fall.
A normal thing, to be bare for the first couple harvesting seasons, it had been told. Nothing to worry about. It’ll happen soon. Everything was still seemingly fine after year three. It’s coming. But when Jackson left empty-handed for the fourth, fifth, then sixth time, it started getting to the tree. Was it sick? Born strange? What was wrong? What could it do to fix it?
Nothing at all. The tree was in perfect health. Its first fruitful season was ahead. But it couldn’t possibly know that. It wouldn’t have believed it even if it knew.
Spring loomed after a frigid January and a wet February. The tree knew that early budding could already foretell what would come of its bloom and it remembered searching for hints of thicker buds on some of its older branches, a tingle where it instinctively poured more energy, a bulbous sign that its time was here. It didn’t bother anymore. Snow cover became the tree’s best friend. Denial was better than disappointment.
