It is thirty-three steps from her front porch to the apple tree. 

It is unclear when the distance grew so large, as neither porch nor tree have moved over the years, though time has begun to move for her at a glacial pace.  She remembers when she could cross the distance in twenty-two light steps – taken in leaps and bounds – whereas now she eases herself down the stairs with care, lurching across the yard, counting as she goes. 

She stops at the tree, resting her hand on the familiar scarred trunk – a silent greeting – and holds tight to the bark as she tilts her chin skyward, steadying her balance.  In that moment, she feels three inches taller – strong and unwavering.  

The days indoors have made her restless – feeling purposeless and sequestered in a house which once felt so much like a home and now is more of a prison. 

“You must be getting a lot of knitting and crocheting done!” people say in an attempt to offer encouragement, as though the world expects her to settle into her rocking chair and give into a life of churning out doilies and afghans.  She longs to stroll through gardens spilling over with life – asters and poppies, bluebells and daisies – nodding their heads as if musicians in a colourful symphony. She longs to clamber into the apple tree’s sheltering embrace as she did when they both were young.

“Hello, beautiful girl,” she says while stroking a silky leaf.  “You are more blessed than you know – here in the garden with the sun to worship you and the wind to play a lullaby through your branches.  And I am blessed to have known you for all these years.”

The woman stretches upward, unsteady but determined, and plucks a single low-hanging apple.  She polishes it diligently until it shines, capturing her features in its reflection – weathered and wise.  

She makes the return trip in only twenty-nine lively steps, rejuvenated after visiting with an old friend.