Evelyn,
I know you will say the yard is already too much work. You will be right. Plant one thing anyway. Let someone else water it. Let the children harvest it. Let the house give back what we put into it.
The first thing I planted here was an apple tree, because you said spring needed proof that winter was not permanent.
The final sentence blurred before I could finish reading it.
Dex put his arm around me.
Mara looked up.
“What does it say?”
I wiped my eyes.
“It says your grandfather wanted us to plant something.”
“Can we?”
“Yes.”
We went outside together.
At the edge of the garden, beneath the old apple tree, Dex had prepared a small patch of earth. He brought out a young sapling wrapped in burlap.
I stared at it.
“Harold planted the first apple tree here,” he said. “I thought we could plant another.”
Petra took a shovel from him.
“Together?”
I nodded.
We dug into the soft soil. Mara dropped the first handful of dirt. Owen pressed the roots into place. Martin held the sapling straight while Lenora tied the branches to a slender stake.
Then Dex covered the roots.
Petra knelt and packed the soil with both hands.
I poured the first water.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The house stood behind us, bright through every window. Voices moved from room to room. The silver candlesticks shone on the table. Harold’s chair faced the garden. The plaque above the doorway carried our names, not as a claim, but as an invitation.
Mara leaned against my side.
“Grandma,” she said, “is this still your house?”
I looked at the people gathered around the new tree.
“Yes,” I told her. “But it is not only mine.”
She considered that.
“Is it our home?”
