A tiny, tender apple orchard in the forested mountains. A little old schoolhouse with a pony in the yard. Red or white? Memories differ. A mother and two little girls, running among the trees, picking apples indiscriminately. An on your honor weigh station.
The trees of the forest have burned. The schoolhouse has burned, and the pony is gone. The girls have grown up. The tiny, tender apple orchard is still there. No sign of the old weigh station scale.
Without the forest, the view of the sea from the mountain is spectacular. Startling clarity after disaster. Something pacific in the sight of the sea. A form of grace in the remaining orchard, green and living. Somehow, this endures, like memory, like love, even after the subjects are gone.
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So intriguing, sad and happy all at the same time. Amazing writing style!