My neighbor stood at the fence and made my six-year-old carry apples across the yard to him, one armful at a time.
The tree is his. About a third of it hangs over our fence, which means every August and September we get apples in our grass, in the flower bed, under the swing set, in the driveway.
I’ve raked them. I’ve bagged them. Two years ago one rotted into the paint on our shed and left a mark that’s still there.
Last Sunday the kids were out back after lunch.
Maya’s six, Leo’s seven. They’d found a soft one and were seeing how far it would come apart against the fence post.
Then Dale came out on his side.
He’s fifty-eight. He’s lived there longer than we have.
He never opened the gate, never set a foot on our grass, he just stood at the fence with his arms folded and looked at my children through the slats.
“Those are mine. Bring them here.”
Leo said, “What?”
“All of them. Every one that came off my tree. Bring them to the fence.”
“They fell on our side.”
“Doesn’t matter where they land. It’s my tree.”
And they did it. That’s the part I can’t get out of my head.
My kids went around their own backyard picking apples out of the flower bed and out from under the swing set and walking them over to the fence in their arms, and he stood on his side and took them one load at a time and dropped them into a bag.
Maya couldn’t carry more than three at a time. She made four trips.
She kept looking up at the deck at me.
