I wrote you a letter after death, when my hands couldn't reach you, and then I gave it to God, asking him only this: deliver what I still owe her.
He made it rain, falling gently just where you live, returning to the apple tree we once believed would outlast us.
The roots drank what my voice couldn't say. Every drop carried what I meant by FOREVER.
When the tree bears its first fruit and you take the first bite, you will pause not because it is sweet but because it is familiar.
Then you will understand it tastes like love, our love, just the way I gave it to you – quiet, patient and still choosing you, even after death.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 1:18 PM UTC
I wrote you a letter after death, when my hands couldn't reach you, and then I gave it to God, asking him only this: deliver what I still owe her.
He made it rain, falling gently just where you live, returning to the apple tree we once believed would outlast us.
The roots drank what my voice couldn't say. Every drop carried what I meant by FOREVER.
When the tree bears its first fruit and you take the first bite, you will pause not because it is sweet but because it is familiar.
Then you will understand it tastes like love, our love, just the way I gave it to you – quiet, patient and still choosing you, even after death.