I think perhaps I will miss the old apple tree more than anything else. This first friend whose woody trunk I clung too in times of sorrow and joy. If I move before spring, I will miss her flush of blooms spread over the patio like a canopy of tattered lace. That play with the sun before her petals drop like spring snow. Ephemeral wings blown away with a wind that brings the budding orbs of summer. I will miss her sweet apples, stunted by shade and the organic burrowing of worms.

Sitting in an old farmhouse, someday I will recall the gathering. Full bowls brought into the kitchen to be parsed and boiled with cinnamon. Browned pulp squeezed into the food mill then left to cool. I will think of the small hands before they waved goodbye to childhood, scooping the sauce of her bounty into eager mouths. No need for sugar. What a gift to be fed by her love.

And I will miss the birds she held through birth, and those that searched her giving body for substance through the seasons. Those downy heads of woodpeckers drumming winter’s rhythm. The inverted gaze of the nuthatch seeking the downward hunt. Robins nesting in her leafy boughs just beyond the reach of the cat. Trusting. I cannot forget the orioles who always chose her showiest days to flash their orange and black bodies like forbidden royalty before her petals lay her bare each summer. But then, I shall recall the barred owl peaking through the gray day of my window from her steady arm to tell me , “It is time go and build your dreams.”

Yes, I believe it is the one who bore this life with me here, who I will miss the most when I leave.