PART 12 — The apple tree in the autumn wind
Two weeks later, Emma, Daan, and I walked down the street where I used to live. The autumn wind had stripped the last leaves from the trees and laid a thick, crunching carpet of gold-yellow across the sidewalks. We stopped in front of the red-brick house. The apple tree was still there, exactly as Daan had said. The branches were bare and black against the gray sky, but at the very top hung a single small apple.
Red and stubborn, as if it refused to be brought down by the autumn storm. “Look,” Daan pointed. “There’s still one up there.” I smiled and put my arm around Emma’s shoulder. She wasn't startled; she even leaned against me for a brief moment, a warm and familiar contact that made me realize how much I had missed and how much I was still allowed to receive.
“Shall I try to grab it?” Daan asked bravely. He was now fifteen, taller than his mother, with broad shoulders and the energetic zest of youth. “No, leave it be,” I said softly. “Some things just need to stay on the tree until they fall on their own.” Emma looked at me, and in her eyes there was no longer any bitterness, only a deep, gentle peace. The wrinkles around her eyes told the story of two decades of hard struggle, but her smile was as radiant as it used to be. “Shall we go home?” she asked. “The stove is burning and there’s still warm hot chocolate ready.” “Yes,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
