Apple Tree Mornings

Summer holidays brought me more joy than anything else in the year.

Because that was when my favorite cousin came to visit

my aunt’s daughter,

my friend,

my hope,

a little piece of the city wrapped in sunlight and dust.

She brought with her fashionable clothes,

urban habits,

new flavors and aromas,

and everything that felt magical

to a girl raised in a quiet village.

She brought happiness.

We played from sunrise to sunset,

swam in the river near the house,

and spun through clouds of dust

left behind by massive Kamaz trucks

hauling wheat, corn, or potatoes from the fields to the barns.

The dust didn’t bother us

it turned into soft clouds,

and we rolled in them, laughed in them,

then ran back to the water, hot and breathless.

The boys teased us with snakes harmless ones

and we screamed and giggled,

pretending to be scared.

Our grandmother, on the other hand,

was genuinely angry if we were late for lunch.

But her lunches…

Oh, her lunches are etched in my memory forever.

The scent of fresh curd.

Thick sour cream in a clay bowl.

Buttery pastries with green onions wrapped in flaky dough.

Those thin flatbreads topped with cream.

And my favorite dish of all — kulchetay.

Oh, how I loved my grandmother’s kulchetay!

The heat of those days left our faces dusty and brown,

our noses stained with sun and soil.

When her parents came to pick her up,

they hardly recognized their own daughter.

But for me,

she was a promise

that another summer would come.

Another year would pass.

And we would meet again

under the same sun, in the same joy,

with our beloved grandmother

serving potato pies and thick, homemade bread

that we dipped each morning in fresh sour cream.

Tea with sugar

that was our Coca-Cola.

That was the taste of childhood.

We’d gather beneath the old apple tree for breakfast.

By mid-summer, the apples ripened.

We could hear the soft thud of fruit falling onto the grass near our plates.

It was as if the tree whispered:

“Children, it’s time. The apples are ready. You may eat.”

And we did.

Those were the most delicious apples of my life

sun-warmed, juicy, full of life.

The taste of milk.

The taste of orchard apples.

The taste of a moment when time stood still.

In the evenings,

grandmother roasted corn on the fire.

We called it “coal corn.”

We’d go to bed with black-stained lips,

too tired to wash our faces,

too full of joy to care.

And we’d fall asleep with the same hope in our hearts:

that tomorrow would come

with a new game, a new adventure,

a new story among the cornfields.

We would make dolls from young husks

and play family beneath the big tree.

Because family was always at the center of everything.

We, the children, and even the adults,

could feel it:

Family was the apple tree.

Family was the clay oven crackling with firewood.

Family was the quiet snow that blanketed the yard after a winter night.

Family was the woman in the house

who protected and nurtured us

our grandmothers,

our mothers,

our guardians.

And our parents

who came home weary and sweating from long days of labor

softened the moment they saw us.

Their voices grew gentler.

Their eyes warmer.

And if I could say one thing to them now,

I would say:

We haven’t forgotten you.

We remember.

We pray for your souls.

One more time.

One more holiday.

One more day.

One more life

passing gently among these golden memories.

Where there is storm,

and sunshine,

and fog,

and rain,

and snow…

That’s where our childhood lived.