Our Autumn Tradition

        It’s a beautiful fall day and my mom has decided it would be fun to go apple picking. When I was a little girl, it was my favorite time of year. Mom would bundle me up in my warm jacket and we would head to the orchard. My dad would sit me up on his shoulders and let me pick the ones high up in the trees. I felt so tall, my dad’s shoulders felt so strong. Mom always warned him I might fall, but I never did.

              Afterwards, I would help mom clean them and bake them into pies and other things. Nothing in the world was more comforting than the smell of fresh apple pie baking in the oven. In those days, I would bring my crayons and coloring books out to the living room so I could be closest to the kitchen. Mom would always serve it for dessert that night with a huge scoop of vanilla bean ice cream.

              As the years went by, things changed more and more. Sitting atop my dad’s shoulders, I would hear my parents’ sniping arguments as we passed through the trees. I didn’t quite understand it at the time, but I knew enough to feel that anxious bubbling in my stomach. Eventually I got too big, the shoulder rides ended. I would walk alongside them and look up at the best apples I couldn’t reach anymore.

              Apple picking day stopped completely the year I turned 12. It was the same year my parents finalized their divorce. I was devastated. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t see it coming. I watched them paint over my childhood scribbles on the walls. The house was quickly sold, both parents getting apartments on opposite sides of the city. Too busy to pick apples now.

              It only took my dad three months to get a new girlfriend. I felt him detach from me more and more each time I saw him. Sometimes I would come to visit and he wouldn’t even be there. He would just give me the keys, let me do whatever. It wasn’t long before he knocked up his new girlfriend and suddenly he had a new kid to take apple picking. No need for me anymore.

              Mom tried her best for me. Her apartment was always cozy, she made sure I still had my own bedroom. She still tried to cook for me, but she was too busy most of the time. Apple pies were store bought, frozen. Some still had that freezer burn taste clinging to them. One day I bought a pack of crayons and a coloring book to color while they baked. I was desperate to recreate that feeling, but it was never the same.

              Now I’m coming up on 18. I’ll be graduating high school next year. Mom has since remarried. He’s a nice guy, a little dorky. I have a sister and I love her more than I ever thought I would. But there’s still an emptiness that lives inside of me. A hollowed out part of my heart. The part my dad used to live in.

              I’ve barely heard from him in two years. I get a short phone call on holidays and my birthday. Usually I hear at least one screaming kid in the background. I have half siblings I’ve never even met. But every time I hear his voice, the past few years melt away and I’m a kid again. Hoping to sit on dad’s shoulders and pick the very best apples.

              Mom’s suggestion to take us to the orchard sends me into a whirlwind of emotions. Part of me is pissed. Another part is just jealous. I try not to show it, but I think mom can tell. She continues anyway, they load us into the van and off we go. I sit in the back, headphones on, my music blasting.

              When we get there, I try any excuse to stay in the van. I’m too tired, I’m feeling sick, anything. Mom sees through it and coaxes me out anyway. She’s being extra careful with me, her voice gentle as if I might shatter into a thousand pieces. I step out and the smell of fresh apples hits me immediately. It’s like stepping back into time, I feel 8 years old again. It takes everything in me not to cry.

              Mom puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. I try a small smile for her and we head to get our baskets. My sister runs ahead of us, small sneakers pounding the grass with her excited squeals trailing behind her. Seeing her so excited warms my heart some. I decide to try a little harder.

              Soon we’re walking through the trees, our baskets filling up with more and more bright red apples. I feel a small tugging at my hand and I look down. It’s my sister, pointing at a spot above my head. “Amelia, can you pick me up? There’s a real good one right there. I can’t reach it.” I scoop her up and lift her as high as I can so she can pick it.

              It doesn’t take long before she’s on my shoulders and instructing me where to walk to get all the best apples. Eventually my anxiety, my anger, my jealousy evaporates completely. This feeling, this making of new memories is exactly what I needed. I’m seeing everything through her eyes, the same eyes I used to have.

               As the sun begins to set, my mom steers us back towards the van. We begin the journey home and I look out the window with a smile on my face. Tonight, my sister and I will help mom clean our apples. We’ll help her prepare her fresh apple pie. I will get the crayons and coloring books out so my sister and I can color and smell the pie baking.

              Someday, I’ll have my own kids and we’ll keep the same tradition.