I am an apple tree.
I was not born. I was copied.
A piece was cut from my older body and joined to new roots. I grew in rows with others who were the same as me.
(This is how most apples begin.)
Then I was lifted from the soil and carried away. The air moved fast and smelled wrong.
I was pressed into new soil.
I grew tall. I made blossoms. I pushed deeper into the earth.
Then winter came and everything fell away.
And now some pale thing is cutting off my limbs.
The future sometimes begins with a knife.
I say this while butchering the trees I spent the last year tending.
Left alone, apple trees ramble. Branches shoot in all directions — crossing, crowding, racing for the sun. Pruning is how you argue with a tree about what it should become.
Still, I consult my notes. Once, twice, three times. I google images I’ve already studied for hours. Then I walk around each tree three times before pulling out my pruners.
I wince with each clip. I tell myself the tree will be better for it.
And still, I pick up every stick that falls and carry it into the garage.
In case I was wrong.
When I was 11 or 12, I came home from school and asked if my dad and brother wanted to do something. I don’t remember what it was. That part didn’t stick.
My dad flew off the handle. He did that sometimes.
Then he got quiet. He told me to sit and think about how I wasn’t the center of the universe. He wrote things on napkins with a Sharpie: KING REN. I’M THE BEST! I RULE!
He set them on my head. My shoulders. My knees.
My dad laughed and took pictures. My little brother hovered behind me, making rabbit ears. It was just us three, but that was audience enough.
It felt like being pruned.
I think about that moment in the orchard.
It’s easiest to prune a tree when it’s young. The cuts are small. The tree keeps growing.
Bigger trees need bigger cuts.
Some take it. Some never quite recover.
Some die.
I’ve developed a habit of accidentally calling my son by my little brother’s name.
They warned us about this when we were younger. When we laughed at them for mixing people up — instead of Ren: Daryll, Joey, Chris — they said it would happen to us too.
It does.
The brain keeps the people you love close together.
Sometimes you reach for your son and your brother answers.
My son has four names.
The last one is ours. Shared with me, my wife, my brother, my old man, my mom, and a long trail of LaFormes scattered across the place.
One middle name comes from my mom’s dad. Long. A little tricky to sound out. Laurel leaves, victory, honor.
The other comes from my wife’s dad. Biblical. The giant-killer. Hebrew for beloved.
And then his first name.
That one belongs to him.
The ancient apple tree in the side yard remains.
My grandparents tended to it. My mom remembers sauce from its fruit as unbeatable. I grew up under it.
It no longer reliably grows apples. Its wood is brittle. Its branches are hollow.
But the trunk, straight and uninterrupted, tells a story: It was not copied. It was born from a seed.
I pore over the tree for fresh growth. I find two tender shoots. I cut them from the body, trim them down, bring them to new roots. My hands shake.
I wrap the cuts carefully.
Press them together.
Tape them tight.
The first graft I attempted failed. I hope these take — grafting is agriculture’s version of prayer.
We inherited this tree. I can only try to keep it going.
The tree will decide.