Malus domestica

CW: Mentions death.

I see that my face and arms are streaked with dirt as I peer into the pool within the tiny mint-green watering can. A butter-yellow sun with red cheeks and prominent dimples smiles up at me from the side of the can. This is it. Hope. Connor steps over the little hole in the ground that we have just finished digging, his hand clutching the baggie which contains the last seed of its kind, Malus domestica, or, apple tree, tightly. He wraps his free arm around me and I lean into him. 

I look up at his face and see tears glistening in his eyes. “You ready?” I ask. 

“Course I am.” Connor says, voice cracking a little. I echo the sentiment, though I don’t let it show like he does. Instead, I dance out of his grip, snatch the ziploc, and gently pick the seed out of it with my left thumb and forefinger. I kneel in the coarse, dead grass. The rocks beneath it dig into my knees, and the dead plant reaches through the miniscule holes in my overalls, grazing my skin.

Connor crouches beside me and cups his hand around my own. Together, we release the seed into the hole. Connor shovels the dirt onto the seed with his hand and pats it down until it’s smooth. He clears away a few rocks near the small mound, then sits back and looks at me with his golden-delicious-colored eyes. They look happier than I’ve seen them in a long time, and they sparkle with a new light.

I pick up the watering can, the painted sun still grinning as if it knows what a momentous occasion this is. I let it hang for a moment, suspended above the tiny hill in which our seed, our dream, rests. The light of the true sun catches the can and reflects off the fake star which continues to smile at me. It blinds me for a moment, and then I tilt the watering can, letting the water sprinkle out. It glitters in the morning light for a second, and then sinks into the soil beneath us.

***

Two months later

A small sapling stands just inches away from the tips of my worn converse. It is green as an inchworm and pretty as a peacock. Connor stands beside me, eyes containing endless joy. Apples will soon grace the world again.

After Malus domestica went extinct, from too much pollution and too many buildings being built atop them, few even cared at that point. Groups popped up on social media sites, protesting the annihilation of those precious trees. But they were small and outnumbered, and shut down quickly by the larger companies who were benefiting off the loss of the trees. 

Connor and I met in one of those groups, and we quickly became friends. We bonded over a shared love of video games and of nature. 

After the last apple tree was cut down, Connor and I searched the world for a lonely remaining seed. We made it our life's mission. Finally we found one, inside of an abandoned home which was full of junk. There was an entire section fully dedicated to plants and gardening. That is where we found the mint-green watering can, and where we found the apple seed, hiding within a ziploc baggie.

We vowed to plant it and bring back apples, but in secret, so they could not be taken away again. We spent weeks researching an area that would be private enough, and finally found one in Middle of Nowhere, Montana. 

Back in the moment, Connor takes my hand and squeezes. I feel something in my chest, something I’ve never felt before. I push it away.

***

One year later

The tree stands about a foot tall now. Still no apples for the world, but we are getting closer. Connor is late.

About ten minutes later I catch sight of honeycrisp-red hair blowing in the wind. I turn, and catch a blinding smile before Connor picks me up and twirls me around. I gasp and laugh, smack his arm playfully. Butterflies explode in my stomach and I feel my face flushing brightly.

Suddenly Connor pulls me forward and kisses me. It is a quick kiss, lasts for less than a second. But I feel a flash of emotion that is large as a tidal wave. Blood roars through my veins. My heart is going a mile a minute.

Connor drops me and runs back to his car.

***

Six months later

We meet up again. The tree is a few inches taller. We don’t say anything. 

Every few minutes I inch closer.

Closer.

Until we are almost touching. I let Connor make the final move. He moves a mere centimeter and suddenly our sides are pressed against each other. Those points of contact become my sole focus.

A few minutes later we move apart again. We begin talking, putting up a facade that everything is normal. Both too scared to do anything else.

"Hi," I say. "How have you been?"

"I've been okay. Our tree's beautiful, isn't she?"

"She really is."

We leave like we used to. Normal. As friends. I feel a little empty inside.

***

One year later

Connor is dead. He got a strange disease which doctors couldn’t identify, passed within 24 hours. I stand with our mint-green watering can before his grave, which is at the foot of the apple tree. That’s where he wanted to be, and though it pains me I honor his wishes.

Tears fall freely from my eyes onto our tree like water used to fall from the can. It scares me. I don’t cry, as a rule. But this time is different.

The hole in my heart seems as if it can never be filled.

I drop the watering can gracelessly onto the dead grass. The sun smiles up at me, cheerful as ever. I hate it.

***

Four years later

This is the first time I have been back to visit in years. It hurts too badly. But as I take a look at our tree, my heart warms, just a tiny bit. The bark is the color of brown sugar, just like Connor’s skin. The apples are golden delicious, the exact color of his eyes. Even the grass has grown green and bright since he was buried. Everything he touches he makes better, even in death.

The hole in my heart starts to fill, little by little, as I take a bite from one of the juicy apples of the tree. It smells just like Connor did– sweet and a little tart at the same time. It feels just gritty enough, just juicy enough, just soft enough. It just may be the best thing I have ever eaten. All this work has been worth it.

Connor is gone, but his spirit lives in these apples, and in this field, and in me. I will keep that spirit in me always, and influence the world as he did. He will never die within me.

I pick up the watering can which I had dropped four years ago. It has rusted over time, but the sun is still grinning, as always, as if telling me everything is going to be alright. I stay with Connor for a long time, then walk away slowly, the watering can gently swinging beside me.

Everything is going to be alright.