apples, picked.

"I urge you to please notice when you are happy and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"

(Kurt Vonnegut)

--

I was giddy and giggling as we drove through the gate and began winding our way up the green hill to the orchard.

"Why are you so excited?" he asked, chuckling and thinking to himself,  'We're just apple picking. In Pennsylvania. This isn't even New York.'

I paused to count the years on my fingers: four, then four, then two.
"Because its been such a very long time since I've been apple picking in October," I replied.
"Its been nearly ten years." (A truth which made me feel strange and old).

The air was unusually warm as we strolled through the rows of cortland and northern spy. B and K's sweet baby R reached for the apples, mimicking his parents from where he sat. We handed him the smallest fruit we could find, watching him grasp, then marvel at the crisp red and green sphere in his strong hand. It was the most darling.

Now, it is possible that I have an apple hangover from eating more apples on Saturday than I have eaten in the rest of the year combined. 
But no matter. I suppose I am making up for lost time.