Note from the author:
I was prompted to write this poem during my grieving process. I recalled a day my mom came to Uncle Chris and my house. I was in the front yard watering a small apple tree when she drove up. It had only one apple (a small one). Mom saw it and in her own giggling, shaky way stumbled out, “That apple is mine!”
I replied, “It is in my yard. I care for it, so it is going to be mine!”
She giggled and with a shaky voice said, “We’ll see.”
I knew there was a story somewhere behind her request just by the way she was acting with her little giggle and shaky voice. I asked. “What is it about this apple that makes you want it so?”
She replied, “When our family first moved from Sherman, Texas to the Denison, Texas farm, there was a huge apple tree on the property. It had only one live branch. On that branch, was one large apple (not quite ripe).”
Papa told all twelve of us children, “Do not touch that apple; that apple is mine!”
“But the temptation wore me down. I couldn’t resist. I climbed that tree. I got that apple. I sat under the dying tree and ate it. It was the best. It was juicy. Never had I tasted an apple so sweet,” my mom said. “The apple on your tree reminds me of that day. I have never told anyone about it until just now. It has been a secret. A secret I have cherished since my youth.”
Neither of us ate the apple from my tree. Instead, a strong Ridgecrest wind came and blew it away. Only the memory returned so I could share the story with you.
I hope you will enjoy the following poem about
Nellie Mae Coffin, Smith, De Juan
December 13, 1911 — January 28, 2007
How Will I Be Remembered?
By Trudy A. Martinez
How will I be remembered ?
Ninety-five years have flown by since I came to be,
I sat under a dying tree,
Savoring the flavor of an apple my dad forbade me to eat,
This is one thing I will remember until my dying day,
How stubborn I was,
And how determined I was to have my own way,
Who’s to say that apple was NOT meant for me,
I taste the sweet juice of the apple,
When I recall sitting under that tree.
How will I be remembered?
A tender touch, a game of Dominos.
A shiny piece of glass?
Or by the taste of life the apple gave to me.
Not even me.
The apple tree died and so do we.
But memories live on,
The memories we share together,
Just the memories of you and me,
Like my apple tree.