Not Always California
A picture of two apples on a limb taken on a mountain top in Virginia. It is blush red, verdant green, and bright blue. A shock. A startling reminder that it was not always cold gray mist pouring through the trees and over the rooftops. It was not always cold marble floors and dark days indoors. It was not always California.
There was a morning in Virginia not long ago that I wandered along a row of apple trees, away from the ruin of an abandoned house, towards a steep ridge. The crowd was in the opposite direction. I walked towards vining flowers, butterflies, and a line of tall trees ascending the ridge. As I strolled, I discovered a treasure, a gift from the orchard. An apple had fallen from one branch only to be caught, impaled upon the bony finger of a lower limb. It was held aloft to me by a hospitable tree.
Carefully, I removed it and took one juicy bite. It was sweeter than any apple I have ever tasted, on the verge of fermentation, and wildly delicious. After savoring the bite, I gingerly, gratefully, replaced the apple upon the bony finger that had offered it. Then I walked far and away up the steep ridge to see everything grow small, distant, and bluish green below me. Around me, a skirt of mountains and trees that rolled forever on.
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Virginia is a magical place!