Orchard Girls

The dirt is moist, the grass puckers with water, and the orchard bulges buxom with apples. Eliza is at school, my Mom has the boys, and I’m with the girls. It’s not often we’re together, just the three of us.

We pick up Michelle and drive to the orchard because I want to remember the way they look at three. Not four. I want to still the laughter, the purity, their smiles and smirks, those warm brown eyes, the dimple in Sami’s cheek.

Morning light slicks their curls gold. Halos rise, stalks glow, and the world catches fire.

Our Ali-girl. Timid and quiet in a crowd. Never mind that she stays close to me, slips her hand into mine, leans against me and creeps into my lap. She is strong and quick, bright and articulate – her memory strong. A fierce passion grows inside her. If only I can let her be who she is, intervene less, love more.

Sweet Sami. Confident, happy, pure, and good. She is content in the moment (almost every moment) and her joy is contagious. Sam loves easily, expecting nothing in return. She makes us laugh with her silly sense of humor. I curb my tongue, try to look before I speak, because she wilts with correction. Her intent is taintless.

These two – so different, have each other.

Say, say oh playmate! Come out and play with me.

And bring your dolly three (or kitty). Climb up my apple tree.

Slide down my rain barrel

Into my cellar door

And we’ll be jolly friends

Forever more.

I push Ali in the swing and my heart flies out of my chest at the thought of them changing. But my concerns lie low when I think they will share school, girlfriends, interests, and experiences – seasons of life. Forever.

I see myself and realize I’m not that girl on the swing anymore. I’m not the gangly self-conscious teen with a retainer and glasses. I’m not even the girl on campus, slumping into seats, writing sappy poetry, memorizing anatomy.

I am a mother. I’m the woman I used to gaze up at, call out for, criticize unfairly, and love. I am that woman. Me.

So I hold them close, take in every bit of it. This love. This connection to my orchard girls – my babes, who like the trees, just keep growing. They too have their seasons. And this one is nearly over.

I breathe it deep, clutch at it – at them, but it is never enough. Can’t be enough. Not when this is what really matters.

Photos by my friend Michelle who harnesses light, lives right, and mothers with purpose. Her photography and words always fill me. I love you Michelle.