Their wedding house had an unplanted garden. She teased the root ball of their first tree, a Fuji, and he sipped cider and smiled at their world. The radio played, and he sang along. Flat.
“Don’t!” she commanded, amused and shocked he would force her to say this. He stopped. She snipped scraggly roots and lowered the root ball. He bulled into the house and never sang in her presence again.
But twenty years later—with the roots deep, and the tree thick with fruit—he jumped into his lover’s car. They sang out loud all the way across the country.