The Big Apple

In Centerville, Utah, Lisa and me picking blackberries the size of our fists. The back of the house faced a mountain seemingly just across a fenced pasture with a big black bull in it. We were sure that we could walk to the mountain and climb it and come home in time for dinner, but we were afraid of the bull.

The backyard apple tree bore one huge fruit, which Lisa and I knocked down with a long stick. Lisa caught it in her apron, and we carried it home in triumph. Our parents exclaimed at its size, saying that it was so big that we wouldn't want anything else and we all four of us ate the apple, and as I remember, nothing else, for dinner.

Spring will come again, every year, just as it has, every year. Spring will come with my sister in my memory, always a little girl catching an apple in her apron, always picking blackberries hand in hand, every spring, in my mind and memory.

(On the death of my sister, February 6, 2009)


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The Big Apple

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