I loved that withered apple tree
that sat at the top
of my Great Grandparents’ hill.
The sugary smell of the fruits,
the feel of the rough sandy bark,
the sound of the wind
as it rippled through the air.

Every visit I would ride on Pa’s
rumbling emerald tractor
that chugged up the steep hill
making a gentle hiss
as it turned off.

Holding Pa’s hand, we walked
up to the lonely elderly plant
that seemed to wave a hello to me
with its long thin branches.
The tree was small
but I was tiny
so Pa reached out his arm
like a long neck
looking for fresh leaves
and snapped off
a bright crimson apple
and gave it to me.

I took the biggest bite I could,
and the juicy sour aroma
filled my parched mouth.

For a long moment
Pa and I sat there together
eating our apples under
our old loving friend.