halves of red delicious apple

The apple was no ordinary apple. It was a Red Delicious and it had been cut in two and shared with her some fifty years ago. The man who cut it was her grandpa and he was confined to a wheelchair soon to die of multiple sclerosis. She and he were alone in the house and he rolled his wheelchair up to the refrigerator, managed to get an apple out, and then expertly used his pocket knife to cut it in two and then scoop out the seeds, coring it before sharing it with her. Back in those days on the farm no one had store-bought apples and certainly no one peeled, cored or cut the crabapples that the kids would pick directly from the tree, wipe on their jeans and eat on their way to the field to herd the cows into the barn for milking.

She still remembers this small act of kindness a prematurely aged man did for his young granddaughter so long ago that time itself moves about in her memory. Was she nine or was she ten and did he have two more years to move his wheelchair about or just one? What did he say to her on that afternoon, and did she sit with him quietly or did she talk as they both savored the richness of the apple? She would hear her parents say later that he was a stern man and tight with his money. But on this moment, he had a lightness of touch with both the small knife and with his smile. He’s never in her dreams, but she wishes he would appear, if for no other reason than to give her a fresh look at one of the men in her family who helped make her the woman she is today.

Time holds her hostage as she asks what more could she have wanted from that day. Everything, of course. Perhaps that was the point. She knows that now as she looks at old photographs from her childhood and finds her smiling adolescent brother, the mischievous one who teased her at times too much and who would grow up to embrace views with simple explanations. She now wonders what thoughts her grandpa had knowing he was going to die and what thoughts her brother had as he lay dying changed by whatever inside him had turned against him. He had become the image of their grandfather in appearance but not necessarily of conviction.

"I remember them like this!"
“I remember them like this!”

Grandpa had given her a gift, simple in itself but such a gift that it taught her kindness, tenderness and vulnerability on top of a love that makes one want to be worthy, generous, and strong. She had taken his apple into herself and had also become worthy. Sadly in the end, her brother had tried to take this apple from her. He had chosen not to share his thoughts with her. He kept his silence about what it was that had drawn him down into such a dark and solitary place. He simply closed his eyes and kept his own confidence about his firm embrace of a painful death, a departure which pushed others away and ultimately tore the fabric of what tied them and so many others together. He died according to his will. Their grandfather died against his will. Grandpa would have been just as mystified as she was.

Now these several months later, she is still trying to find the way to say good-bye, which was not important to him in the end. He had chosen to just shrivel up, jaw agape, without even a symbolic leather belt nearby to bite for palliative care. Her dreams have not allowed her to see into his chosen darkness. During this time, all she has wanted has been a last chance to spin him around as though they were children and he sitting on a swivel chair. She waits to see the moment when he will awaken and run forth in another direction. But it’s not to be. She envies Toni Morrison’s words of praise about James Baldwin and the gifts he had given her–“the courage to live life in and from its belly as well as beyond its edges.”

Returning to the special moment with her grandfather, she asks herself again what more could she have wanted from that time so long ago when her grandfather gave her something neither of them probably fully realized. From that simple act of kindness, she learned that what we will not grasp will be lost. Lost forever.

Now she has placed a slate marker in the meadow where her brother used to emerge from the forest on his walks while visiting. He came into view with his big smile as though he had just shot off a spinning chair.

Once of the Farm
Now of the Forest

Lost into Himself
Refusing to be found

Swept into the Shadows
Causing Pain and Confusion

Your Flight has seared my Heart
Now bring Light and find Rest

Be remembered Here

Image: Two halves of red delicious apple by Juri Samsonov and licensed by at
David Evans

David Evans

I'm retired from another life and live in the mountains of eastern West Virginia with my muse Jody along with one little and two big dogs and a diminishing pride of two cats and other critters who come along the path from time to time. I retired one morning years ago when I woke up and said, "This is the day." It was simply time to do something new with my life. I had done whatever I did long enough, and now it was time to do something else. Being independent and no longer in the reins of someone else's driver, I believe I have found something to cherish that I never had before. Retirement may be dull and boring, but that's true only if you are dull and boring. But if you’re like I was, and am, I saw a lot of things as I went along the trail that I would have liked to linger over a lot longer if I had had the time to spare. Above all, I wanted to think about what they meant and have the chance to go back over them and figure them out. I'm not abashed to say that today I lead a life of real luxury. I also recognize that I'm a lucky boy. In the words of Katherine Anne Porter: "My life has been incredible, I don't believe a word of it." I am the author of the recently published collection of essays entitled Meeting Memory In The Dark. Earlier I self-published Words To Woo Her By And Other Distractions Along The Way; Tunes of Glory: The Slow Ticking of the Heart; Cradle My Soul: Glimpses Into Other Lives; and Unscheduled Stops: Essays on Love, Loss and Other Roadside Attractions. All are available on either Amazon or Create Space, a subsidiary of Amazon. Proceeds go to the Almost Heaven Golden Retriever Rescue and Sanctuary in Capon Bridge, West Virginia.