Tender Fruit

We were 16, and he was beautiful. The attention he paid me was intoxicating. I spent every shift scanning strangers’ produce. I spent every shift feeling the flesh of the fruits and vegetables in the palms of my hands, gently cupping the peaches and pears so as not to bruise their delicate skin. I spent every shift searching him out. Between the beep… beep… beeps of the register, my eyes would scan over the low racks, trying to catch a glimpse of tan arms I knew would be stocking an aisle somewhere. Would he be looking at me this time? He almost always was. My stomach would somersault as his green eyes drank me in. Blood would rush to my face and head, making the world shift in and out of focus. But my vision would clear in a second, and he’d still be there. Wanting me.

We are 51, and he is beautiful. The attention he pays me is comforting. I spend every morning walking through our orchard. I spend every morning holding each swollen fruit in the palm of my hand, checking for ripeness. Peach trees, pear trees, apple trees. I spend every morning, grateful. Between each row, I look down the branch-lined paths, searching him out. My eyes drink in the green of the grass, the green of the leaves, until I find him with his slender, tan arms I know will be holding a harvesting basket. Will he return my gaze? He almost always does. His eyes soften when they meet mine. I know now, they’re not green. They are green flecked with gold, rimmed with black, and dotted with delicious brown freckles. My lungs fill with a deep breath of fresh air, and I am grounded. Tenderness overflows within me and my eyes brim with tears of appreciation, blurring the world around me. But my vision clears in a second, and he’s still there. Loving me.

She is 16, and she is beautiful. The attention she pays us is precious. We spend every evening eating dinner as a family. We spend every evening holding onto the time we have with her. Our teenager. Our flesh and blood. She is strong, but delicate - nearly a young woman. We spend every evening trying to know her better. Smart, capable, precocious. Her skin tan, and her arms strong from afternoon sports practices. A beautiful hybrid of her father and me. I search her face and see my nose, my lips, and his green eyes. They meet mine, and they roll. They’re not green. They’re green and gold. My heart swells, and I am terrified. Terrified of the hold this being has over me. Terrified of the things she will see in her lifetime. Terrified of the tears those eyes will shed. Terrified of the lessons she will learn and the world she will discover. Terrified of what it would mean to lose her. She is the culmination of everything. Of the first seed planted in our relationship. Of the growth we’ve experienced individually, and as a couple. Of the years we spent tending and nurturing our bond. She is the fruit of our love. Panic swells within me and I close my eyes. There is a season for everything. She will know happiness. She will know wisdom. She will know the thrill of uncertainty. She will know satisfaction. She will know romance. She will know how wholly she is loved. Storms will come and go. The fears can be put aside for now, for they do nothing but cloud this moment. I open my eyes, and they’re both still there. Completing me.