The Apple Trees

Grampa loved those trees.

The winter had been long.
My toes wiggled in the dirt. It felt so good to touch the ground again. The fresh breeze tossed my hair and embraced me. I missed you, too! it seemed to say. I hugged myself, imagining telling the playful wind about my first day out of school. That made me laugh. It wouldn’t sit still that long.
As my mouth continued to giggle, my feet lead me down the path a bit more, deeper into the old orchard. New blossoms of leaves were growing on the branches. I smiled, gently straightening a small green bud.
Grampa would be so proud.
He’d died a year ago, and I’d done my best to keep the aging trees well. They were a troublesome bunch, but the only things he’d ever cared about. Look, he’d say, pointing to a bud, This one will be beautiful.
He was always right, too.
I don’t think anybody knew trees as well as my Grampa. He used to talk to them as if they were alive. “Hello, beautiful,” Grampa would whisper, when he thought no one else was around. “How are you doing?” Then he’d stand still and listen. After a while, his head would lift again and he would smile. Bending closer to the bark, he’d whisper something to it, and saunter off, whistling.
It took me a while, but I learned to sneak closer. I found out what it was he said to each tree.
It was a prayer.
Grow well, grow high, he’d breathe. Be the greatest of them all. Make me proud, darling. I‘ll be back.
And they would. But the year he died, something happened.
The trees started to die, too.
My ma had somebody come find out what was wrong, but they couldn’t find anything. They just scratched their foreheads and shuffled away, counting their money and calling over their shoulders, “Good luck!”
It might have helped, ‘cause I figured it out.
Grampa told the trees he’d be back. But he never came.
So I went back to the orchard, and stood on a big rock. “Listen, trees!” I shouted. “Grampa won’t come back. But he sent me, and told me to take care of you. So here I am.” Then I waited, and listened.
And the trees spoke to me. I finally heard what it was Grampa was listening for every time his head bent to their trunks. They said, Welcome.
And that was all.
It’s my job now. I look after the trees, and come every day to talk to them. It drove my mother crazy, but I even went out in the snow to see my Grampa’s orchard. Every day, I repeat Grampa’s prayer, and the trees whisper, Thank you. We will wait for you.
And they do.

Reviews

[R]

Oh my goodness. That was amazing, Becca! I really can identify with that story and Grandpa seems exactly like me. I ALWAYS talk to trees, and I hear them also. But I don't hear them with my ears, I usually can hear them with my fingertips. Obviously, I'm a tree-hugger. Say, Becca, is this a true story? That would be amazing if it were! Thank you for sharing this piece with everyone on http://writerscafe.org/ I look forward to reading more writing from you. :)