Standing under the first apple tree in the row of twenty at the end of my field, I thought about what my granddad had told me when we had been planting these trees thirty years ago.
‘Money grows on trees, you know. And these trees are very special. They are going to make you lots of money, Abbey.’
He hadn’t been wrong. The trees produced a large amount of sweet apples which were good for eating and cider making. The extra money had always been useful and the harvest had never failed.
Staring up through the branches at slices of sky, I wondered what was going to happen now.
‘I wish you did grow money,’ I said.
The wind gently shook the trees, rustling the green leaves and I breathed in the heavy fragrant scent of spring.
I shut my eyes and though it was childish, pretended that the trees were answering me.
‘Perhaps, we can’t grow real money. But haven’t we provided you with more?’ the trees whispered to me.
‘And I’m grateful, but now…I’m at a loss. I don’t want to give you up but what else can I do?’ I asked.
The trees seemed to sigh.
Money isn’t a thing that bothers trees; they didn’t value it. Life however is something they need.
‘You could be cut down….’ I mutter and picture this bright meadow gone and replaced by houses.
‘Whatever will be will be,’ the trees tell me, ‘if you have the power to change it then try. Life’s cycle will continue no matter what.’
‘Then, I’ll try and change it…Everything in my power I’ll do and I’ll save you trees!’ I yell.
Birds startle into the sky flapping loudly and the wind shakes the trees as if they are cheering me on. The field becomes quiet again and I know what I must do.