⏱ ~3 min reading
There was a young apple tree in his grandfather's garden. Grandfather had planted it last spring—Yarchik remembered how they dug the hole, how grandfather showed the roots.
The apple tree was thin, only a little taller than Yarchik. The branches were flexible, with small leaves - even lighter than the others. Yarchik loved this apple tree. It was his age in the garden.
One day in June, Grandpa was cooking stew in the summer kitchen. It smelled of prunes and mint. The little boy was playing by himself. At the pilot's.
He ran between the beds, arms outstretched, and buzzed nimbly. He jumped over the path. He flapped his wing—pushed his arms aside.
Crunch.
The torch stopped.
The apple branch was now hanging at an angle. Not quite broken off, but almost. Only a thin strip of bark held it in place.
Yarchik felt a hot sensation in his stomach. He looked around - no one was in sight. Only the sparrows on the fence were chirping.
He approached slowly. He touched the crack. The bark was green inside. Light green, like milk. It smelled bitter, but clean—like freshly grated apple skin.
Yarchik tried to lift the branch. It wouldn't hold. It was falling.
“Grandpa!” he called.
Grandpa came out of the summer kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.
— What, my dear?
— I broke it.
Grandpa came up. He looked at it silently. He ran his palm over the bark above the crack — carefully, like petting a kitten.
"Uh-huh," he said. Not angrily. A little thoughtfully.
Yarchik expected to get into a fight. He didn't.
"Grandpa, I didn't want to. I was playing and didn't see.".
- I know, dear.
"Will she die?"
Grandpa's eyes were gray, with radiant wrinkles—Yarchik loved these wrinkles, because when Grandpa smiled, they spread out like the sun.
— Look. The twig is still holding on. If we do everything right, it might take root. The tree is alive too. It can heal itself.
— How?
"I'll show you. You just have to be gentle. Like with a wound.".
Grandpa brought a small board from the barn — thin as a ruler. A piece of clean cloth. A piece of rope.
— Hold the board like this — straight across the branch.
He held the candle. His hands trembled a little.
Grandpa carefully lifted the twig to its previous position. He placed a plank — like a splint for a person with a fracture. He wrapped the fracture site with a cloth — gently. And on top — with a rope.
— Yes. Now the tree will do its own thing. The sap is running inside - it will heal. Like your blood.
"Does it hurt, grandpa?"
Grandfather was silent.
— I think so. In its own way. Not like you, when you prick your finger — it’s different. But it feels. Because it’s alive. Everything that grows feels.
Yarchik looked at the bandaged twig. Like a hand in a cast.
"I won't play pilot by the apple tree anymore. That's where the potatoes are. I won't break anything there.".
Grandpa smiled - the wrinkles disappeared.
— That's clever.
Yarchik checked on the apple tree every day. He brought it water in a small watering can, even though Grandpa said that trees don't drink like kittens.
The bark over the fracture thickened. After a month, Grandpa carefully removed the bandage. The twig held on. By itself. New leaves appeared on it.
— Grandpa, she's alive!
"Alive, my dear. Because you didn't abandon me. Because you took care of me.".
The following spring — Yarchik was already in first grade — three flowers bloomed on the same branch. White, with a hint of pink. Like stars.
"Grandpa, did she forgive me?"
"I guess, my dear. Trees are kind. They remember the hand that saves, not the one that breaks.".
Yarchik nodded. He placed his hand on the trunk. The bark was warm from the sun.
💡 A tree also feels - so you should treat it as if it were alive.