My dad once remarked that there was nothing better
than coming home from school, climbing an apple tree,
and eating a juicy apple from his perch in the branches.
It always seemed like a charming memory to me.
But today I think I found out why the simple act of picking fruit
was such a primal, spiritual experience for him.
Our little fig tree before it set fruit:
I've had a stressful few days,
trying to get some things ready in time to meet an impending deadline.
But this evening I picked figs for a crostata I plan to make.
It was then I understood the profound attraction that plucking
one perfect apple had for my dad.
Inside the cloak of the fig tree, I felt the supple bending of the branches,
the massive fig leaves brushing against me,
my fingers touching the soft fruit,
the fig's golden skins glistening with sticky sugar.
Arms reaching up as high as I could make them.
Seems like heaven to me.