via Mandy Dawson
It wasn’t the wrap-around porch, the high ceilings, or the expensive furniture Katherine loved most about the home she shared with her husband. It wasn’t the two-car garage, half-moon driveway, or the attic Chris had transformed into a craft area for her. It wasn’t the bay windows, or the enormous kitchen where she spent time baking pies and bread from scratch to share with her neighbors.
No, Katherine’s favorite part of her house wasn’t even that her husband had designed and built it, with the help of his carpenter brother and an alternating band of friends willing to help turn a pile of lumber into a perfect home.
Her favorite part of the house was a small section of her acres of backyard that stretched beyond view of the porch swing where she rocked herself as she read adventure novel after adventure novel during the hours her husband was at work. The section was barely four square feet of grass that seemed to boast a slightly brighter green than the rest of the field.
It also was home to a small peach tree. It was the only fruit-bearing tree on their land. Katherine had never been one for gardening, never planted anything on all that land. She had kept it grassy and lush, so the neighbor’s children always had somewhere to play out their imaginative games.
But one day she had noticed the patch of grass had started to grow something. The house was still new at that point. It had a fresh coat of paint on the interior and exterior, so that even sitting out on the porch with a book she could still smell a faint wisp of paint smell. Her eyes had been wrinkle-free then, and a brighter blue. Her hair was a deep red, years from its first gray hair or twelve.
She watched that something grow for a while, speculating about what it would be fully-grown. Chris didn’t show as much interest in the little sapling, but Katherine would rock herself in that swing, wondering what it was.
She never watered it. Never tended to it at all. And, yet, it still flourished. One spring it bore fruit and Katherine came out in the morning to find a single, slightly round, fuzzy peach the size of a child’s fist dangling from a small branch. She had plucked it immediately and took a big bite into the sweet fruit.
Yes, that tree that never bore more than one peach at a time was definitely her favorite part of the home her husband had built. The tree that continued to bear fruit, even as she could not bear her own.