You remember the potpourri of apple seeds resting in your tiny hand when your Granny Smith told you, for seeds to grow, they crave the sun’s warm embrace, the clouds’ dewy blessings, and the wind’s breath of life. In a crisper tone she warned, “be careful not to trample on them or crush them into dust.” You watched the seeds dance with the winds as they gently spilled from your palm. Then you waited, waited, waited until sprouts rose from the soil.
You remember Sunday mornings when rotten Braeburn slammed the front door. Your mother, bruised and tart, curled into a ball and cried. Offering your sweet plush Honeycrisp to silence her weeping, you whispered, “but I love you.” She ignored you through the mist of sobs, and you retreated into a world of make-believe family, conjured imaginary meals, and played hide-and-seek with fantastical friends until Braeburn’s crushing footsteps echoed on the cherry flooring. Hiding in the sheltering shadow of the wooden door you waited, waited, waited for your mother to emerge from the refuge of her room—your growling stomach a silent witness each time she welcomed him back, smiling away lingering tears.
You remember when you stole Braeburn’s dead blow hammer and slammed its face down on your wrist in an anguished kiss. You screamed from the pain, waiting for your mother to tune into your voice. Its vibration. Brushing your sweet plush toy against your cheek, your mother said, “I don’t think anything is broken.”
You remember the day you became a mother, the days your daughter danced in vibrant hues with her golden corkscrew curls bouncing off her shoulders. Delicious. Unblemished. Rapturous.
One by one, like wilted apple blossoms, the coiled locks tumbled to the floor. “Shorter!” she pleaded with the hairstylist. Each floating petal a cut into the bark of your heart. Braeburn’s dusty memories scattered on the floor baiting you.
Growing pains for your daughter come in small carvings across her leafless limbs. Life’s fears over-ripening within her, torment tricking her to hide today.
Gripping your un-cried tears, you blink away the pain. You wish she could see how she shimmers in the shade of your apple tree.
“Don’t hide,” you tell her.
Then you wait, wait, wait.
Wow!! What a powerful and magical story.
Thank you Mary for taking the time to read.
Beautifully rendered. The parallels between daughter and mother are powerful. Well done!
Thank you.
Evocative imagery and lovely emotional resonance. Well done!
I appreciate that. Thank you.
This piece is very well crafted. I appreciate the second person point of view. Gives the piece an additional layer of complexity.
Hi Anya 🤪 Thank you for your support sweetheart.
Excellent. Darn… you’re good!
Thank you for your kind words.
Emotionally beautiful, Britta. This will stay with me.
Thank you Brian. Appreciate you taking the time to read and share your experience.
Beautifully and cleverly written. Multi-layered, tender and tough. A heartwrenching and hopeful journey. Brilliant work!
Thank you for your kind words.
I really enjoyed this piece and the subtle changes from one draft to another. The story is everything every other commenter has mentioned, plus it makes me want to eat an apple.
Thank you Allison.
Such powerful imagery! I’ll never think of a Braeburn or a Honey Crisp in the same way.
I do hope you will still enjoy the taste of them:-) Thanks for reading.
Gorgeous and heartbreaking. You are a true poet, Britta!
Thank you 🙂
Beautiful that dance across the page with melancholic twists and turns
Thank you.