The Apple of my Eye

Hi Everyone! For all the fall lovers, this story is a great upcoming autumn story to get in the cinnamon breeze mood, enjoy this heartwarming story warmer than your apple cider! 

The Apple of My Eye

 My rusting mustang pulled up in the dusted parking lot, squeezing in between two black vehicles beside. No one had picked this last outlier due to the fair amount of residue left from last night's showers, but my car had already been permanently stained since the 1800s and a few fresh mud splashes wouldn’t bother.

The vibrant foliage hit my pupils, the red strong and fierce, the orange an energetic sun, and the bronzing leaves a woody paint. The air tinted with cinnamon and apple cider pleasantly invaded my nostrils with its strong scent.

Apple Picking. My favorite activity. Even better in the autumn.

Unlike previous Orchards I visited, this one was slanted on the hill. Hopefully I'll find the right one here.

Little Jim’s Apples. The garden area was quaint and tranquil, not very busy on such a foggy day.

I prayed to myself for no ginormous showers.

I walked over to the entrance.

“Carol Sandon '' I stated as I shuffled in my pocket for the ticket.

“And you are how old?” She asked, almost rudely but not enough to point out. 

“84, just here for good old fashioned apple picking.” I smiled, handing her the blue paper ticket.

The young woman nodded and stamped my ticket in dark red ink, and threw it in a bin over at the side.

The woman seemed to be baffled, my legs, although hidden in my lengthy coffee stained coat, still appeared scrawny, and my wrinkled skin was surely not a good sign. 

I walked over to the apple buckets, editing my small wobbly gait to appear younger and stronger as I felt the women's cold gray eyes wash over my back, sending chills to my spine like zaps of lightning..

I picked up one of the larger orange buckets, hiding my invisible struggles. 

Spying a guide through the orchard to my right, I walked over to get a better view. I had forgotten my glasses, again.I checked thoroughly through the list of apples as I was baked like apple pie in the sun.

1. Red Delicious. A succulent and fun fruit 
2. Pink Lady Apple. Sweet tooth’s dream
3. Golden Delicious. A sweet and spicy rollercoaster
4. Grannysmith. Sublime Sour goodness

“Grannysmiths are his favorite.” I had thought to myself, as I did before for the past 40 years. 

The Grannysmiths were planted at the very top of the hill, so I started my journey up in the thin track of moist soil and grass. Intricate footprints lie in the mud, slowly fading into other boot imprints.

I spied the Red Delicious in the first row of trees, applecores decomposing on top of their roots where humans dropped them. The trees in an asymmetrical row, I walked through them, looking ahead, I saw a boisterous family, a few pre-teens and children and their parents examining the apples. 

I found a fairly ripe family of apples and picked one out and opened wide, showcasing my pearly yellows to the world. The one I wanted wasn’t here. My bucket lay barren.

The family squeezed through behind me, frankly rude due to the lack of any apologetic phrase. “Excuse me” must’ve not been in their dictionary. I was bewildered by their manners.

Following them back to the middle lane, I spied the Pink Lady Apples jumbled above in the distance. 

I walked up, the others squeezing in front, annoyed by me. I spied each row until it changed apple color, unlike many others, there were no signs depicting the type ahead. 

I saw the color drastically change. I stepped through the first row and peered ahead on the others. I picked one of the ripe fruits and took a bite, as in the description, a sweetart, more tangy flavor than expected from the prissy pink princess of fruits, watermelon and strawberry only fighting for seconds. My long coat stained with mud at the rims, I sauntered off to the next aisle. These weren’t right. 

My feet sore from the walk, I stumbled through at raging speed. I need to get up to the top. I said to myself. 

Cruising through to the Golden Delicious. I spied each row, and checked behind every stranger blocking my view. Their sweet and spicy style was amusing, but not yet ready. 

I felt the apple scent slowly fade away, a damp moist scent came along, hinted with a rotted blueberry scent.

Rain.

I looked behind, the other people hastily exited.

I felt a droplet fall onto my arm, then my forehead.

The droplet sprinkle advanced into a drizzle, then a low stream shower, then a hard rain, pouring down on the trees. My anxious mind was causing quite the thunderstorm.

I hustled up the top of the hill, awaiting the Grannysmiths. Nearing the sour suckers, only a few rows away. I hurdled the roots poking out of the nutrient rich soil. 

A larger one took me down, I fell onto the watery grass, too weak to pull up, the slippery ground denying my exit over and over until my hands were black with mud.

 Someone helped me up but a raindrop spited my sight to spy on my savior.

Rubbing my eyes, I saw him. The apple of my eye. 

My lost and forgotten husband, Edward Jean.

The End.

Hi readers! Thank you so much for reading “The Apple of my Eye” 

I’ve been a little busy with no time to post but I will more soon next week. Please read my other previous stories on my page if you liked this one! What’s your favorite apple type, there are so many more fruit types than you think! Leave it down in the comments below! Please like the story and I’ll make sure to upvote your comments. See you next week with another great story!