Apples

By Sonja Semion

You picked me up at the airport but you headed north, away from home. You handed me a sweater to shield me from October’s chill and a sandwich to cure me after a long flight.

The leaves turned from soft green to orange to blazing gold as we drove up the river. The city traffic faded and I found my breath again. I left behind the blur of my sudden travels and watched the land rise up toward the Catskills.

I was tired. The hum of the road erased my need to talk. So I kept to myself all that I’d learned from the doctors and nurses – the list of side effects from chemotherapy, survival rates after two years, the way a tumor looks on an x-ray. I put to rest the way the doctor shrugged when my mother asked why her fingernails had turned brown, the desperate look on her face as she covered them with thick layers of pink polish.

Instead, I let you sing along to the music, completely on key. I watched the sunlight racing us behind the trees. I felt your hand on my thigh, warm and untroubled.

I didn’t tell you how she still doesn’t let me finish my sentences. That she’s still a terrible driver, and I’m sure that if it’s not the cancer, it’ll be that. She’s just as oblivious as ever; even while facing a pile of deafening brochures stacked on her coffee table, she talks about retirement.

You turned left into the apple orchard and found a lean-to where two teenagers were stomping their feet to stay warm. One of them handed you a red mesh bag and a map, without ever looking you in the eyes. We set off to pick our way through the Jonagold and Stayman Crisp, carefully avoiding the Red Delicious. The map said the Seckle pears were out of season, but we found one thumb-sized, hiding in the naked branches. I placed it carefully in my shirt pocket and thought of my mother standing in the open car door at the airport.

When I hugged her there, it was the first time I’d really meant it. I wondered if she’d noticed. We walked to the farthest edge of the orchard, where the noise of the crowds was overtaken by the wind. In the Empires, you pressed me against a low branch and kissed me and we both remembered that we had been apart. In a forest full of dripping apples, we made love silently, gracefully, and unexpectedly. Sweet, rotting nectar rose from the smashed apples beneath our feet. The sky was large and blue. My throat heavy, my desire overwhelming.

A yellow-specked leaf fell from an oak tree, swaying its way down slowly, so slowly.

We rested languidly on the green grass carpet, watching fall settle in around us. I placed my head on your stomach and you stroked the inside of my arm the way that I always ask you to do. We talked about pies with lattice crusts and brown sugar, about apple pancakes with maple syrup and butter. We discussed ways to split a tiny Seckle pear between us. We didn’t bother with the rest, not then.

The sun tipped its hat to bid us farewell and we reluctantly made our way across the orchard, a bag of red and green globes resting on your shoulder. On the way out, we bought six cinnamon donuts for dinner. We sat in our parked car as the twilight deepened, crunching sugar between our teeth. For a soft, doughy moment, this was all there was.

When the parking lot was empty, you turned on the car and drove south. I pulled my sweater tightly around me and thought of my mother, a thousand miles south. I heard her coughing, the deep, guttural sound spilling out of the cracks of her bedroom door. Then your favorite song came on. You reached over, turned up the volume, and sang along perfectly on key.

You rested your hand on my thigh and followed the river south toward home.

Sonja Semion is a wisdom guide and a writer. She weaves together her 20 years experience as an intuitive healer with Ayurveda and the deeper teachings of yoga to support her clients to rewrite the narratives of their lives. Her group and 1:1 work specializes in making sense of grief, creating space for celebration, and finding passion for life. Meet Sonja at SevaMama.com or Instagram and TikTok @thesevamama.