The Apple Tree

The apple tree.

As I sit on the doorstep, cup of coffee in my hand, face stretched towards the winter sun I’m compelled to tell you about the apple tree. She stands proudly 5 feet away from me to my left. She has had a traumatic journey.

A seed from an eaten apple, by pregnant me. Decided by husband and wife to grow into a seedling, just as baby was growing in me.

A warm, comfortable, happy seedling. Sitting on the protected kitchen sill. Growing strong waiting to experience the outdoor pleasures.

A bright sunny May Day transported from inside to outside. Potted in a larger pot, placed in a protected part of the garden.

A wet, dark, miserable day neglected because of circumstances. Husband and wife no longer. The green fingered partner had moved on, prevented from taking two treasures permanently from the broken home.

Growth from 15 years of abuse. Cankers swelling on the stem, white rot fungating on the skin. Either too dry or too wet, too potted, and too dark where she stood.

A day of change. Returned to the green fingers. Planted in the earth with love. Bark covered with aloe vera, soothing immunostimulant, anti-inflammatory effects, wound healing, anti-bacterial, anti-viral, anti-fungal gel.

A flower is born, surprisingly pink rather than the expected white. With leaves that start to shine.

New growth, slowly hiding the tree’s traumas.

I sit here and wonder at my apple tree’s beauty. You can still see her wounds, but no longer fungating. She is beautiful, and perhaps stronger from her journey bathed in a shaft of sunlight in today’s cold winters day.

It’s a reminder of the old saying, you can’t judge a book by it’s cover, who knows how the iceberg has impacted them and how bruised and sore their inner layers may be.