ancestral apples

I picked bushels of apples from the trees my grandfather planted

on our family farm forever ago. I unearthed the old harvest ladder,

and climbed as high as it took me.

I looked down and saw the ghost of my mother, lamenting the rotting apples,

that she would have made into applesauce and pies.

The Yellow Transparents were her favorite. Mine too.

I can taste the tartness of her applesauce, the crisp sweetness of her pies,

in every delicious bite...