Burning eyes as I sip my coffee, foot to the gas peddle, I drive down the little mountain road toward the highway lined with apple trees. The day has been filled to the brim with teaching children, and my back seat is filled with tiny ones telling exciting stories. I poured this coffee freshly before I left our school room, as I knew that the thirty minute drive home would be everlasting. The taste of the darkly roasted beans and almond milk fills my mouth, warming my chills away.
Red light.
Slowing before turning onto the highway home, my white minivan stops to the oppressive light, lengthening my commute by 2 entire minutes. I just want to be at home. I want a fresh cup of coffee... I'll call Josh and ask him if he would mind taking a break at the home office to brew a fresh pot... That dear sweet husband... he's been taking care of me since we were 15 and 16 and so in love. No one knew then that 20 years would come and go, and that boy I talked to after school for endless minutes would still be there ready to hear about my day but now with our kids from that school "across the sea" as I like to call it. This endless drive. I'll turn the music up.
Green light. I cross the highway and turn left to merge with the busy traffic.
That apple orchard. It's late November now... this small Canadian town hasn't had any snow. The orchard looks like skeletons against the grey sky, devoid of all of it's lush green leaves and fresh red fruit. Two months ago the air smelled like MacIntosh apples, and the golden light would stream through the forest green leaves, as the view of the valley below gave way to the crystal clear lake.
Not today. The orchard searing its image into my mind, as sense of mourning fills my soul. The work is done, the scene tells me. It's time for rest, and soon the dark earth will be covered with white and the trees will freeze and become brittle. You don't prune apple trees near the impending freeze... the frost will get in there and you'll get a lot of winter die-back, killing off more of the tree. So the trees stand with hands raised upward, ready and waiting for the ice to pierce their flesh and the long hibernation period to begin. As I drive along past the kilometer of barren apple trees, my heart aches for the Spring, when the skeletons will burst forth with white blossoms to feed the honey bees, and the work of producing fruit will begin again.
Red light.
Slowing before turning onto the highway home, my white minivan stops to the oppressive light, lengthening my commute by 2 entire minutes. I just want to be at home. I want a fresh cup of coffee... I'll call Josh and ask him if he would mind taking a break at the home office to brew a fresh pot... That dear sweet husband... he's been taking care of me since we were 15 and 16 and so in love. No one knew then that 20 years would come and go, and that boy I talked to after school for endless minutes would still be there ready to hear about my day but now with our kids from that school "across the sea" as I like to call it. This endless drive. I'll turn the music up.
Green light. I cross the highway and turn left to merge with the busy traffic.
That apple orchard. It's late November now... this small Canadian town hasn't had any snow. The orchard looks like skeletons against the grey sky, devoid of all of it's lush green leaves and fresh red fruit. Two months ago the air smelled like MacIntosh apples, and the golden light would stream through the forest green leaves, as the view of the valley below gave way to the crystal clear lake.
Not today. The orchard searing its image into my mind, as sense of mourning fills my soul. The work is done, the scene tells me. It's time for rest, and soon the dark earth will be covered with white and the trees will freeze and become brittle. You don't prune apple trees near the impending freeze... the frost will get in there and you'll get a lot of winter die-back, killing off more of the tree. So the trees stand with hands raised upward, ready and waiting for the ice to pierce their flesh and the long hibernation period to begin. As I drive along past the kilometer of barren apple trees, my heart aches for the Spring, when the skeletons will burst forth with white blossoms to feed the honey bees, and the work of producing fruit will begin again.
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