A few doors down from my house, just around the corner, there’s a small rental house. I don’t know the story of the house except that it’s poorly cared for, nor do I know the story of its owners except it doesn’t appear that they love their house, nor its renters’ stories, except none of them ever never stay long.
But along side the driveway there were once, and not so long ago, three small apricot trees. Each year they produced beautiful looking fruit, the trees were lush with it, fruit that I didn’t allow myself to lean into the leaves or bend to the ground for on my evening neighborhood strolls. The trees were neglected and as with other things not treated well it got to me but I did nothing being a firm believer in private property…
Now there is one apricot tree. Early last month I walked by and saw it had produced a single apricot that hung ripe and heavy. Guilt-free, I plucked it and slipped it into my mouth and enjoyed a delicious mouthful of fruit. There’s a warmth to an apricot no other fruit has and a sweetness that is nearly starchy that I love. Then there’s the color. How often can we taste sunlight? That evening I did.
Later, I pressed its seed into the dirt in my yard. Nothing yet. I’m waiting for spring.