with a grin. “Not a weightlifting competition.”
We planted it together. In truth, I did most of the digging while Dean sat nearby, offering instructions. When we finished, he placed one hand against the thin trunk.
“Give it time,” he said. “It’ll surprise you.”
Dean died four months later.
For two years, the tree produced nothing. I nearly had it removed because looking at it brought back too much pain. Then one spring, it finally bloomed.
The following autumn, it produced twelve apples.
I counted every one.
As the years
