The fire took the orchard.

You remember the smell. Charred wood. Rotten apples. The sweet, cloying scent of things that were once alive and are now merely fuel. It is a small town. Everything is connected. The smoke drifts over the houses. It settles in the curtains. It sits in your lungs. You are standing on the porch. Your hands are shaking. You hold a glass of water. The ice has melted. The water is warm.

The trees are gone.

They were beautiful in the spring. They were beautiful in the summer. They are gone now. The ground is black. Ash covers the grass. It looks like snow. But it is hot. It burns your feet if you walk barefoot. You do not walk barefoot. You wear shoes. They are old. The soles are worn thin.

You watch the embers die. They glow red. Then they fade. They become gray. They become dust. The night is cool. The air is still. There is no wind. The fire is out. It is over.

You go inside. The house is dark. You do not turn on the light. You sit in the chair by the window. You look out. The darkness is thick. It presses against the glass. You can see your reflection. Your face is pale. Your eyes are red. You look old. You feel old.

Your name is Margaret. You are fifty-four years old. Your back aches. Your knees ache. You move slowly. You move carefully. You are tired. You have been tired for a long time. You have been tired since the diagnosis. You have been tired since the chemo. You have been tired since the silence.

You think about the trees. You planted them. You planted them when you were young. You were twenty. You were in love. You were full of life. You thought the trees would outlive you. You were wrong. They did not outlive you. They burned.

You think about David. David is dead. David has been dead for ten years. He was a good man. He was a quiet man. He loved the trees. He loved the garden. He loved you. He is gone. The trees are gone. What is left?

You are left with the house. You are left with the ash. You are left with the silence.

A knock at the door.

It is late. Who is it? You stand up. Your joints crack. You walk to the door. The wood is cold. You open it.

It is Mrs. Gable.

She is old. Older than you. She wears a dark coat. She holds a basket. The basket is covered with a cloth. She looks at you. Her eyes are kind. Her eyes are sad.

"Margaret," she says.

"Mrs. Gable."

"You saw the fire."

"I saw the fire."

She steps inside. She does not ask permission. She walks in. Her shoes click on the floor. She smells of lavender. She smells of age. She smells of earth.

She puts the basket on the table. She lifts the cloth.

Inside are apples.

They are red. They are shiny. They are perfect. They are untouched by the fire.

"From the west side," she says. "The fire stopped. These were safe."

You look at the apples. They are bright. They are alive. They are a miracle.

"Thank you," you say.

Your voice is hoarse. You clear your throat.

"Sit down, dear," Mrs. Gable says. "You look pale."

You sit. She sits. The chair creaks. The room is quiet. The ash outside glows faintly in the dark.

"Did you sleep?" she asks.

"No."

"Nor I."

You look at her. She looks at you. There is a bond between you. It is old. It is deep. It is unspoken.

She reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a small object. It is a seed. It is dry. It is brown. It is hard.

"From one of the fallen trees," she says. "I found it in the ash."

You take the seed. It is small. It is light. It feels heavy in your hand.

"Plant it," she says.

"Where?"

"Here. In the garden. In the black soil. It will grow."

You look at the seed. You look at the apples. You look at the window. The darkness is still there. The night is still there.

"I am tired, Mrs. Gable," you say. "I do not want to plant a tree. I do not want to wait. I do not want to hope."

"You do not have to hope," she says. "You only have to plant."

She stands up. She puts on her coat. She picks up the basket. The apples are still there. They are bright.

"Keep the apples," she says. "Eat them. They are sweet."

She walks to the door. She stops. She looks back at you.

"The trees are gone, Margaret. But the root is deep. The root remains."

She leaves. The door closes. The latch clicks.

You are alone.

You look at the seed in your hand. You look at the apples on the table. You stand up. Your legs are weak. You sway. You hold onto the table.

You walk to the window. You open it. The air is cold. It is clean. It smells of rain. It smells of coming.

You look at the black ground. You look at the ash. You look at the dark sky.

You think about your life. You think about the years. You think about the pain. You think about the loss. You think about the fear.

You think about the seed.

It is a small thing. It is a fragile thing. It is a promise.

You go to the kitchen. You get a trowel. You get a pot. You fill the pot with soil. The soil is dark. It is rich. It is full of life.

You put the seed in the pot. You cover it with soil. You pat it down.

You put the pot on the windowsill. You look at it.

It is just a seed.

It is just a pot.

It is just a room.

It is just a life.

But it is yours.

You go back to the table. You cut an apple. The knife slices through the skin. The flesh is white. It is crisp.

You take a bite.

It is sweet. It is cold. It is alive.

You chew. You swallow.

The taste fills your mouth. It fills your throat. It fills your heart.

You close your eyes.

You remember the spring. You remember the blossoms. You remember the sun. You remember the joy.

You remember the fire. You remember the heat. You remember the smoke. You remember the loss.

You remember the seed. You remember the soil. You remember the root.

You are not defeated.

You are not broken.

You are rooted.

The night passes. The stars come out. They are bright. They are cold. They are eternal.

You watch them.

You watch the pot.

The seed is in the dark.

The seed is in the soil.

The seed is in the waiting.

You do not sleep. You do not need to sleep. You are awake. You are present. You are here.

The morning comes. The light is gray. The light is soft.

You look at the pot. There is no change. There is no sprout. There is no leaf.

There is only the soil.

There is only the silence.

There is only you.

You go to the garden. The ash is still there. The ground is still black. The air is still cold.

You kneel down. The dirt gets on your knees. Your knees ache. You do not care.

You dig. You dig a hole. You put the pot in the hole. You fill the hole with soil. You cover the pot.

You press the earth down. You make it firm. You make it solid.

You stand up. Your back aches. Your legs are weak.

You look at the spot. There is nothing there. There is only a mound of earth.

But you know it is there.

You know the seed is there.

You know the root is there.

You walk back to the house. You enter. You close the door.

You sit in the chair. You look out the window.

The garden is empty.

The garden is full.

You are empty.

You are full.

You are Margaret. You are fifty-four years old. You are alive.

The fire is over.

The ash remains.

The root remains.

You breathe.

You breathe.

You breathe.