apple treestolen memories

Ray Rasmussen

Midnight, the windows of the homes unlit. Elm branches sway in a warm breeze. Leaves rustle.

I enter a back alley, glance around, scramble over a wooden fence, intent on stealing apples.

Once this was my yard. On a visit, my father noticed the lack of trees and bought the one whose bounty I plan to plunder. Side by side, we planted it, me helping him with the shovel, both of us on our knees tamping down the earth around its roots. Year after year, my daughters and I picked apples, made apple pie, enjoyed the bounty.

I pick one, bite in. Its sweetness takes me back to my father's backyard – to the times I would climb the tree, pick tart Gravenstein's.

He died ten years ago. A year later I sold the house, and while I have fruit trees in my new backyard, it's these apples that are my father's.

windfall –
a basket full
of memories


Published in Simply Haiku, 5:1 Spring 2007

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