Standing in the orchard, I feel the rough peeling bark of the ancient apple tree. Years of neglect have left the once fruitful tree with tangles of overgrown branches, shooting suckers and sparse apples limply hanging like castaways. Where had the time gone? When was the last time I felt the warmth of my muscles tending the orchard?
Time has passed, and not been gentle with the years. I've grown older, but am now the last of my line. What will happen to this dying land? Who will care once I'm gone?
Slowly bending down, I pick a shriveled apple up from the tangle of weeds at the base of the tree. Half green, half red, except for the shrinkage, a perfect specimen of the once vibrant tree. No worm holes, no bug bites, just shriveled skin - it matches my hands and the lines on my face.
This is the end of the line, no one else cares. Standing in the middle of my beloved orchard, my heart is breaking. There is no reason to go on, there is no one to miss me. Am I to end up like the abandoned fruit of my orchard?