I awake one crisp January morning and groggily stumble into the dimly lit kitchen for breakfast. Upon opening the fridge an apple rolls out of the fridge and onto my foot causing it to shoot down the hallway. I sleepily chase the rogue fruit on its escape route into a room gone undisturbed for years. Partially dulled pencil still sitting upon unfinished story, blankets ruffled half on half off the bed. The room of a writer, the room of a brother. I walk over to my brother’s dusty drafting table and lay the skewed thesaurus to rest with the rest of my brother’s small library and pick up his unfinished work. He writes,
“ To My Brother, Mother, Father and Family, In years i will not know,
Though I may not know the years that you shall experience I shall always have an opened ear and an offered palm towards you, and”
And then he stopped there. I thought to myself as I fought back tears, why did he stop with the word and? “And” leads you to believe that there is more to be said or experienced. I guess that’s what he wanted. His words do not stop on the word and nor do they fade under dust. His words carry on through me, in my heart and mind. I retrieve the rogue apple and rub it vigorously upon my shirt, and then I promptly chomped into its red juicy flesh. I retrieve the seeds from inside the mysterious fruit and plant them in a well soiled and watered pot and place on a sunny windowsill. I came back twice every week and watered it lightly. When spring melted away the snow I planted the tree in my front yard. Many years later I sit under the apple tree, my writers tree and write my own stories as my brother watches over me.
Dedicated to: Dane Nordheim and family.