he had said. “It’ll surprise you.”
So I agreed.
The following spring, the tree bloomed again.
Not every damaged branch recovered, but the healthy limbs filled with white flowers. By September, apples hung from them once more.
Mira brought folding tables into my garden. Families arrived carrying jars, pie dishes, cutting boards and cider presses.
Children picked apples under supervision. Mrs Patel taught several teenagers how to make apple butter. Someone burned the first pie, while someone else added far too much cinnamon to the cider.
The entire street smelled
