“C'mon,” you urged, pulling the door shut and waving me to follow, “I'll show you the orchard.”
Our boots crunched through the icy grass as we climbed a hill laced with hibernating blueberry bushes. Birds fluttered on the ground beneath them, unearthing the dregs of withered fruit.
A dozen rows of trees stood tall at the top of the hill, sparkling like diamonds as the frost loosened and dripped from their leaves. “Cortlands to the left, Macs to the right. And these,” you said, pulling a pink apple from a low hanging branch and shining it on your flannel, “are the Honey Crisps.” We each grabbed a stack of bushel baskets and started plucking.
We had nearly cleared the closest Honey Crisp tree before you spoke again. Hesitantly, you confided “Russ and I are having problems. I don't think we're going to make it.” The way your voice shook, I knew this was the first time you had dared to utter these truths out loud.
We spent the rest of the day with our backs against that tree on the edge of the orchard, guiltlessly eating our way through the two bushels we had managed to fill. The birds, who had followed us from the blueberry bushes, swooped to clean our discarded cores. Your crying turned to laughter, then to crying again, then to laughter, as you worked through all of the emotions you had held in for so long.
“Whatever happens, I think it's going to be okay,” you finally said as the sun started to sink. “I think I'm going to be okay.”
“I know you are.”
With that, I pulled you to your feet and kissed your cheek before starting to pick the ripest apples from the next tree.
That night, we tossed a few logs into the wood stove, curled up on the couch with our cold toes tucked under fleece blankets, and dug into one fresh apple pie with two forks. “Good harvest,” you said, grinning.
“Yea,” I agreed with a smirk. “Maybe tomorrow we can actually pick fruit.”
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