The apple tree was there long before our grandparents started building their house. When they got married and bought the lands, the tree was already old and apparently tired; it only made apples one summer of two. That was happening in between the wars.
When I noticed the apple tree, we were living the glorious post-revolutionary years, but, for this earthling, everything was pretty much the same. Older than the oldest people alive and strongest than the house built next to it, the apple tree just kept on blooming every second spring, giving us delicious fruits every second summer.
I met it recently; it was full of flowers and bees. It’s 2015. Our grandparents are both long gone; their children have grandchildren of their own. Under its new armor and a coat of paint, the house silently cracks and crumbles, slowly slipping away with each rain. Outside this place, the world completely changed.
The day our entire family history will be gone with the wind, I expect from the apple tree to still stand, protecting its orphaned lands, surrounded by our ghosts, covered in blossoms, as it always was.