Josiah planted an apple tree the year of his wedding. He was 20. Sapling from his father (who planted one the year of HIS wedding, from HIS father).
Five years — nothing. Thin tree. Leaves. No fruit. Sarah: 'Maybe a different spot?' Josiah: 'Wait.'
Year six — 12 apples. Small, sour. Sarah made compote (from 12 apples — one jar. But the first).
Year ten — 200 apples. Pie, compote, dried, fresh. Tree strong. Roots deep.
Twentieth — 500. Thirtieth — best harvest: 800 apples. Huge tree. Shade across half the yard. Children swung on a branch (thick, reliable — like Josiah).
Now Josiah is 55. Tree is 35. Best apples — now. Josiah's best years — also now. Coincidence? Or: tree and man grow the same. Slowly. Deeply. Fruit comes later. Not on demand. When the time comes.