The day the baby died a million tiny pearl and pink flowers opened on the apple tree, releasing their scent into the air. Walking past them, from the car to the house, Jacob paused to breathe, taking in the sweet aroma, letting it tickle his memory. Flowers meant that eventually there would be apples – apples that they loved to pick and eat. In a few months, the entire house would be draped in the scent of cinnamon and brown sugar, vanilla and cream, and the warmth of the oven would spread through every room.
He wondered whether he should go inside and get the clippers to snip some of the branches to take back with him to the hospital, so Stella could enjoy them. Or would they remind her of how she planned to make applesauce for their daughter this fall?
Reaching into his pocket, Jacob fished out his keys, walking quickly to the front door. Instead, he lay on the brown shag carpet, staring up at the ceiling, and cried for the apples that would never be eaten.
(c) Elvira Berezowsky
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