The Apple of My Eye

Step One: Choose a large apple that’s firm, fleshy and plump.

Walter walked through the grove, the thinning sunlight filtered between the apple trees: Macintosh, Honeycrisp, Fuji, Gala. He squinted at the recipe card in Marigold’s rounded handwriting and chose to fill his bag with Granny Smiths. The autumn air was crisp and refreshing.

It reminded him of when he and Marigold were dating. She smelled sweet even after a vigorous bike ride around the campus lake. He liked to ride behind her, where her hair was flying off her shoulders, her sweater flapping in the wind, the irresistible swell of her delectable rump overflowing the bike seat.

Step Two: Peel the apple first.

She insisted on sex before marriage. He enthusiastically complied. Marigold and Walter discovered the joys of the flesh together, in a grove of old oaks, the acorns hitting the ground like fireworks. They shed layers of clothing with abandon; desperate, hungry.

As the months went by a different kind of shedding took place. The careful peeling back of the protective skin to who lay beneath, the core of their being. They knew they wanted to grow old together.

Step Three: Take a sharp knife and form the nose, eye sockets and mouth.

If Walter were blind he could have carved her features by heart. The slope of her nose, the arch of her brow, the turn of her cheek. He held the peeled apple in the palm of his hand, as gently as he held her face. He omitted the sculpting of the tongue which, during the worst of times, could be acidic and as sharp as the knife he held. But he was aware that with it came a mind equally as sharp and quick witted.

Step Four: Carve around the features, especially the eyes and forehead, to exaggerate them.

As they aged, so too did Marigold’s features. Laugh lines extended from her mouth to the corner of her eyes. Wrinkles furrowed her brow from years of worry: at 36 when their son stayed out all night, his whereabouts unknown; at 50 when Walter came home to tell her he’d lost his job; and ten years later sitting in the doctor’s office and getting the results of her biopsy.

Step Five: Soak the carved apple in lemon juice for a half an hour.

The bitterness of the diagnosis took the enamel off Walter’s teeth. Marigold and Walter knew where this was going, of course they did. But there is a big difference between the knowing of something and the experiencing of it.

Marigold marveled at how rapidly a life of love moves. She thought she would have all the time in the world. Walter became irritable, barking at the delivery boy to pack less in each grocery bag, loudly disagreeing with the mechanic about the cause of the tapping in the car’s engine, as if his anger could replace the sadness.

Stage Six: Place the apple on a cookie sheet at 175 degrees and bake for four to six hours.

Chemo, Marigold said, feels like being in a slow cooker. It seemed to take all the moisture out of her body, which shrunk before Walter’s eyes.

One night towards the end, sitting by the side of their bed, Walter held her dry hand in his own. This hand had held so much… their baby boy, their family together, their dreams of retirement and how to live into old age.

Step Seven: Let the apple cool and place beans, raisins or cloves for the eyes.

At six o’clock on a lovely spring morning, a morning where the apple blossoms were busy collecting bees, Walter gently closed Marigold’s eyes. He took a deep breath, holding in the oxygen, knowing that the essence of her, her breath, still lingered in the room.

As the months and then a year shed their days, Walter grappled with letting go of the pain that was part of each minute. The further he got from the pain, the further he seemed to get from Marigold.

As he removed the carved apple from the cooling rack, he sighed with satisfaction. He placed her on the windowsill to witness the beginning of another spring.