The Apple Orchard
“Boughs gently bending with the weight of the rosy pink harvest, the tree released its ripe bounty with ease, as though with the unburdening of its branches came welcome relief.”
Darkening mid-September skies threatened to bring an end to her adventure. She had escaped to the apple orchard in the hope of not only filling her basket with early autumn treasure, but in finding a little tranquility among the abundant trees. A few rows down she heard the delighted squeals of children followed by the gentle thud of falling fruit. She smiled, recalling the carefree days of adolescence. With her arm aching under the brimful basket, she reached as high as she could into the deepening green above. Boughs gently bending with the weight of the rosy pink harvest, the tree released its ripe bounty with ease, as though with the unburdening of its branches came welcome relief.
As she ambled steadily along the trodden grass passage, she considered her own repose at being concealed from view among the fruit-bearing trees. Despite the burgeoning clouds and the occasional patter of rain on the leafy canopy overhead, this place had brought comfort. What was it about the orchard that made her feel at ease? She took refuge beneath a particularly bounteous hardwood. A damp autumn chill was beginning to set in as the sky overhead turned a leaden grey. Looking all around her for the catalyst, she suddenly realized that this unfamiliar scene had somehow ignited a nostalgic recollection from her youth, one that unearthed a sing-song hymn she’d long ago forgotten. Oversized water droplets fell from the swollen heavens at a quickening pace as she softly hummed the chorus of the bygone song. She glanced over at her haul, briefly wondering how she might return without getting soaked to the skin. From behind another row of trees, three children dashed wildly into view, hopping excitedly as if animatedly raising their mud-boots and flapping their arms might shield them from the storm. The smallest of the brood swung a jute bag of apples over his shoulder. He caught her eye and smiled, entirely unperturbed by the worsening rain. “We’re going to make a pie!” he exclaimed with gusto. She went to stand, but before she had a chance to return the sweet child’s hearty greeting, he had vanished from sight.
Stooping to retrieve her basket from the protection of the leaf-covered branches, she hastened to follow the flock of families who like her, had been concealed in the acreage of the orchard. Down the hill they danced, yipping excitedly while attempting to dodge the ongoing deluge. Sodden and numb to the bone with cold, she sat in the front seat of her car observing the windows fog up around her. The air vents expelled a rush of warm air as she turned the temperature dial all the way to the right. With the damp underside of her woolen cardigan she wiped her window clear just in time to catch the boy waving from the rear glass of the departing vehicle. She smiled earnestly, raising her hand to bid him a fond farewell filled with unspoken gratitude. And singing aloud the autumn ode she had uncovered from the deep chasm of her memory, she said goodbye to the apple orchard, for she was going home to bake a pie too.
Images created in collaboration with Jodi & Kurt Photography.