Lobethal, South Australia, Australia
She says, 'The apples in the box are the nicest,' and opens her palm. On fine-boned hand, an apple: pale green, misshapen, but still with the blush of garden on it and seemingly translucent, as if lit from within, like her skin.
These are apples her dead father planted. Now hers. She gives them to her stepfather. He was her father's adversary while he lived. But death transforms many things, including old wounds, and apple trees grow and bear regardless. Beside which, her father could not abide waste.
in the apple trees
dividing the spoils
pale autumn light