Speaker 1: The apple tree. Pippin had lived in the cottage for
Speaker 1: exactly three days when she found the apple tree. It
Speaker 1: stood at the far end of the garden, behind a
Speaker 1: low stone wall covered in moss. Its branches spread wide
Speaker 1: and heavy with fruit. The apples were not quite red
Speaker 1: and not quite green. They were a color she did
Speaker 1: not have a word for, something warm and soft, like
Speaker 1: the inside of a seashell. She had been exploring the garden,
Speaker 1: which was wild and overgrown, full of tall grass and
Speaker 1: tangled rose bushes, and a path made of flat stones
Speaker 1: that led nowhere in particular. The cottage itself was small
Speaker 1: and old, with low ceilings and windows that stuck. She
Speaker 1: had inherited it from a great aunt she had met
Speaker 1: only twice, a woman named Marguerite, who had lived alone
Speaker 1: for forty years and left behind a house full of
Speaker 1: books and teacups and a garden that had gone feral.
Speaker 1: Pippin reached up and picked an apple. It came away
Speaker 1: from the branch easily, as if it had been waiting.
Speaker 1: She turned it in her hand. It was warm from
Speaker 1: the sun, and when she bit into it, the taste
Speaker 1: flooded her mouth. It tasted like her grandmother's kitchen, not
Speaker 1: any specific kitchen she could name, but the idea of
Speaker 1: one warm bread, cinnamon, a radio playing softly in another room,
Speaker 1: the smell of something baking, the feeling of being small
Speaker 1: and safe and watched over. Pippin stood very still, the
Speaker 1: apple in her hand, her eyes closed. The taste was
Speaker 1: so clear, so present, that she could almost hear the radio,
Speaker 1: almost smell the bread. She took another bite, the same warmth,
Speaker 1: the same safety. She ate the whole apple, standing in
Speaker 1: the tall grass, and when she was done, she picked another.
Speaker 1: This one tasted different. It tasted like a carnival. Not
Speaker 1: the noise and the lights, but the feeling of being
Speaker 1: seven years old and holding a cotton candy bigger than
Speaker 1: your head, and the world was enormous and full of
Speaker 1: things you had not yet seen. The sweetness, the stickiness,
Speaker 1: the wonder. Pippin laughed out loud. She had not thought
Speaker 1: about that carnival in twenty years. She had not remembered
Speaker 1: it existed until this moment, and now it was here,
Speaker 1: vivid and real, in the taste of an apple. She
Speaker 1: to third rain on a sun warmed sidewalk, the smell
Speaker 1: of wet concrete and the feeling of summer storms, and
Speaker 1: the way the world looked afterwards, everything bright and clean
Speaker 1: and new. She sat down on the stone wall and
Speaker 1: ate it slowly, letting each bite bring back something she
Speaker 1: had not known she had lost. The apple tree stood
Speaker 1: before her, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. It
Speaker 1: was not a large tree, maybe twenty feet tall, with
Speaker 1: a trunk that was knotted and twisted, its bark rough
Speaker 1: and dark. The branches spread out like arms, and the
Speaker 1: apples hung in clusters, heavy and warm. Pippin looked at
Speaker 1: it and felt something she could not quite name. Not
Speaker 1: surprise exactly, not wonder, something quieter, something like recognition. Over
Speaker 1: the next few days, Pippin returned to the tree every morning.
Speaker 1: Each apple was different. One tasted like the ocean, not
Speaker 1: the ocean itself, but the feeling of standing at the
Speaker 1: edge of it, the salt on your lips, the sound
Speaker 1: of waves. Another tasted like a book she had loved
Speaker 1: as a child, the feeling of turning pages in a
Speaker 1: quiet room. Another tasted like the first cold day of autumn,
Speaker 1: the smell of wood smoke and the paunch of leaves.
Speaker 1: She began to understand the tree was not just an
Speaker 1: apple tree. It was a record, a record of joy,
Speaker 1: of small, perfect moments that had been so quiet they
Speaker 1: were almost forgotten. The tree held them, grew them, offered
Speaker 1: them back. Pippins started sharing the apples. She brought a
Speaker 1: basket to the village market and set them out on
Speaker 1: a table. A woman picked one up, bit into it,
Speaker 1: and went very still, her eyes filled with tears. This
Speaker 1: taste like my mother's garden, she whispered. A man took
Speaker 1: one and laughed, this taste like the day my daughter
Speaker 1: was born. A child ate one, slowly, reverently, and said
Speaker 1: nothing at all. Jess sat on the ground with the
Speaker 1: apple in both hands and a look of pure concentration
Speaker 1: on her face. Pippin did not explain. She did not
Speaker 1: know how to explain. She just offered the apples and
Speaker 1: watched people. Remember. The tree did not seem to mind
Speaker 1: being picked. It bore fruit steadily, new apples appearing as
Speaker 1: fast as the old ones were taken. Pippin began to
Speaker 1: think of it as a kind of library, not of books,
Speaker 1: but of feelings, of moments, of the small, bright things
Speaker 1: that make up a life. One evening, as the sun
Speaker 1: was setting in the guard and was golden Pippin sat
Speaker 1: beneath the tree, with her back against its trunk. She
Speaker 1: could feel the bark rough against her shoulders, the roots
Speaker 1: thick and strong beneath the earth. She picked an apple
Speaker 1: from a low branch and bit into it. It tasted
Speaker 1: like this, not a memory, but the present, The warm
Speaker 1: evening air, the sound of birds settling in for the night,
Speaker 1: the smell of grass and earth, the feeling of being
Speaker 1: exactly where she was supposed to be. Pippin finished the
Speaker 1: apple and set the core on the ground beside her.
Speaker 1: She leaned her head back against the trunk and closed
Speaker 1: her eyes. The tree held her the way trees do,
Speaker 1: with no expectation, no judgment, no hurry, just presence, just
Speaker 1: the slow, steady work of growing. She slept up there
Speaker 1: under the apple tree and dreamed of nothing at all.
Speaker 1: When she woke, the sky was dark and full of stars,
Speaker 1: and the apples above her glowed faintly in the moonlight,
Speaker 1: each one a small, round world of joy waiting to
Speaker 1: be tasted. Pippin went inside and slept deeply, the taste
Speaker 1: of the last apples still on her tongue. Not a
Speaker 1: memory this time, but something better, the taste of being
Speaker 1: here of being present, of being home. In the morning,
Speaker 1: she would go back to the tree. She would pick
Speaker 1: an apple and remember something she had forgotten she loved,
Speaker 1: and the tree would give it to her freely and
Speaker 1: without condition, the way all the best things in life
Speaker 1: are given, quietly, patiently, one small sweet gift at a time,