A fall day just past noon. I am three, my eyes burning, inflamed. “Pink eye,” I’m told. I lie down on the corn-shuck mattress, my grandmother’s poultice of decaying apple on my eyes. When the afternoon ends I am healed.

***

At the edge of the plowed field, the Virginia Beauty heavy with red fruit. Sweet apples my grandmother will bake. Then a summer night, dark with thunderstorms that topple the tree.

***

When we moved from that place to the new farm with its flowering fruit trees, I named it Avalon, not knowing that the name means “Isle of Apples.” A Horse Apple tree in the back yard. On the hill above the marsh green with flags, an orchard of Grimes Goldens.

***

In my uncle’s orchards, avenues of trees with their ripple of names: Arkansas Black, Pumpkin Sweet, Rome Beauty.

***

On the road by the school, the Apple House. In September light, women sorted and packed Stark’s Red Delicious, Stayman Winesap, Maiden Blush, King David. .