I look out the window as pine trees and mailboxes quickly pass by. My dad behind the wheel as I sit in the passenger’s seat. The truck’s seats smelling of firewood and gasoline. I listen to the tires hit the gravel as I read the green wooden sign, Back Acres. I focus my eyes on trees that line the driveway and the sheds made from weathered wood. My dad parks the truck, and I jump out and stretch my legs. I smell the fresh forest air and notice the tall, towering trees next to the little cabin and my grandpa’s vegetable garden—cucumbers, tomatoes, green beans, and green carrot tops poking through the dirt.
On the other side of the cabin, apple trees tower over my small stature. My grandpa, grey-haired and wrinkled smile, stands holding a plastic ice cream pail, collecting the fallen apples. Green and red, some with holes from worms searching for a home, others bruised from the fall. I slip my sandals off and allow my toes to mingle with the overgrown green grass. I watch the trees as the wind moves through the branches, my grandpa walking over to me, greeting me with a warm hug and smile, “Apples are ready to pick.” I grin and search for the perfect apple. I bend down and pick up an apple. Green with red spots, no holes, and no bruises. I bring it up to my mouth and take a bite, sourness flowing from cheeks to lips puckering. I notice the apples hanging from the trees and the tiny ants that climb up toward the top. I wonder what it would be like to sit on the tops of those trees and what it looks like past the miles of trees that surround us. I feel myself exhale, and it is as if time has stopped for just a moment.
I continue to eat the apple as I rush to follow my dad and grandpa. We enter the woods, shaded from the sun, and follow the dirt path. I walk over broken sticks and wet leaves. We pass wood piles and squirrels and continue until we stop at a green bridge. I imagine that the bridge leads to a castle or continues until you reach a magical forest. I pick up stones and toss them into the flowing river and watch leaves float as they race each other downstream.
I listen to the tires hit the gravel and watch the pine trees rush past as my husband and I drive down the narrow treelined driveway. I find my dad near the garden, picking green beans and placing them in a plastic ice cream pail. I join and throw off my sandals next to a large, towering tree. I let my feet mingle with the dirt and pick the cherry tomatoes from the green vines. The tomatoes leave the vine, but instead of placing them in the pail, I quickly savor them. After the pails are full of tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and potatoes, I enjoy staring at the row of large sunflowers that line the back of the garden. I leave the garden and make my way toward the cluster of apple trees on the other side of the cabin.
An empty wooden pail sits beneath one of the apple trees. I sit next to the pail under the tree and take in the fresh summer air. Between the cluster of apple trees, I let the warmth of the sun touch my skin as I remember the past soft voices of my dad and grandpa talking about the carrots and the cucumbers. I can almost taste the sour apples that made my lips pucker and hear my grandpa’s soft voice as he tells me, “Apples are ready to pick.”
Crystal Lynn Writing 