October apples

The wind is soft and warm, a unfamiliar wind for October in Montana. It is the kind of wind that  envelopes you in warmth. This same wind ruffled the leaves of the apple trees in the orchard as I walked through. There is a stark contrast between the golden straw that was once grass but has been transformed by another dry intense summer, and the dull speckled green and red apples that hung above my head.


It was a Saturday with no place better to be I had chosen to wander through a world that was only mine. As was the case with a lot of my childhood memories, I was alone in the orchard. I would spend hours walking through the trees, examining the branches, creating a world that could only exist in the middle of nowhere.


I would casually pluck an apple from the lowest available branch, which occasionally required me to climb up into the tree rather jump for a branch just out of reach. I had to try each tree's fruit to make sure every tree was producing apples worth eating, sometimes only taking a bite then tossing the rest to the ground for worms to enjoy at a lower level. Hours later, I would return almost sick from the obligated bite of each apple.


Every available weekend I would wander through this vast field which was so close geographically yet so far from anything I knew. I would be lost all day while my parents fought or ran errands, both occurred as frequent as the other. I wanted no part of going to town or listening to the anger. In the orchard there was peace, a sway of the trees would quiet the hurt.


Each October, since I have moved away, I miss the feel of the warm breeze and taste the purity of apples never sold in a store, some small enough to double as a golf ball; though the sweetness still lingers even in the smallest nibble. October is my favorite month and even at my age it makes me homesick for a simple sweetness my life has been lacking.