Windfall

That autumn no one knew why she worried about the rain, but she felt winter in the wind, saw the sky darkening. At night she heard hail on the roof—hail she feared would form, hail the size of silver dollars. In the morning, sunshine taunted her as she picked her way to the orchard; apples lay everywhere, a sea of red. She lifted one and peered at it—bruised, broken, its misshapen body the color of blood. She dropped the fruit and turned toward the farmhouse, defeated. How could a family survive without an income? Suddenly she remembered a recipe: Sweet, tangy, tart—a delicious drink. She looked up, now beholding the beaming sun as a token of hope. “I thank Thee, Lord, for the wind, for the fallen fruit waiting to be pressed into cider to sell.”