pruning shears tucked into his pocket, studying the branches and gently turning apples in his hands as though the fruit might whisper when it was ready.
One afternoon, our eight-year-old son, Ben, followed him around with a basket.
Ben reached toward a bright red apple.
“Not that one yet,” Daniel told him.
“But it looks ready.”
Daniel smiled.
“Looks can fool you. Twist it gently.”
Ben tried.
The apple refused to leave the branch.
Daniel laughed.
“When something is ready, you shouldn’t have to fight it.”
I stood nearby watching
