Climate
by Rebecca Rubenstein
Last year, for the first time, the ghost apples appeared. They hung from our trees, ornamental, bodies bulbous and glistening and delicate. Mama called them a blessing. She was adamant, claimed an ice sculptor could not have created anything nearly as beautiful, but I had my doubts. It doesn’t take much to carve a shape if you have an eye and a knack. Papa had agreed, always on my side. But we took photographs anyway, so we could remember. Just in case Mama was right. Just in case we’d never find ourselves blessed again.
Some journalists got word and interviewed our family, citing the rare occurrence. We were informed to exhaustion: It’s not every day you find trees littered with the icy silhouettes of apples! We know, went the voices in our heads, we’re not stupid. But Papa, a steward of politeness, smiled and said: I’m very proud of what nature has done. What nature is capable of doing.
After seeing our names in print, some scientists called and asked if they could inspect our trees. By then, the ghost apples had melted and disappeared. You’re welcome to take a look, Papa said, but I don’t know what you’ll find. The scientists visited but left disappointed. Papa was right: the ghosts had been and gone, and the scientists found nothing of use at all. Just some barren trees and fallen fruit, the husks half-eaten and rotting beneath.
Now winter is approaching, and I wonder if the ghost apples will return. Mama prays. She is still convinced they were a gift and an affirmation. I am not so sure. In recent years, the colder months have become less predictable. The freezes don’t come for ages, and then suddenly there is a snap, and the temperatures dip far below what anyone expects. How can we live with this uncertainty? The ghost apples brought surprise, yes, and some of it was good. Some of it filled us with wonder and delight. But I believe in omens. I believe the heart can beat in many ways. What awes us now can shake us awake later. A quickening of the pulse. A shortening of breath.
Now I ask: What if these ghosts were not worth welcoming? What if they haunt us until the warmth disappears fully, and the land is no longer inhabitable? What if our home becomes nothing more than a memory, one that warps and weaves and fades under a thicket of ice? What will we do, then? How will we go on?
Rebecca Rubenstein is a writer and editor based in San Francisco. She received an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars, is an alum of the Tin House Writers Workshop, and has work published or forthcoming in Hobart After Dark, X-R-A-Y, Past Ten, and elsewhere. When not writing, she is a Fiction Editor at The Rumpus and Editor-in-Chief of Midnight Breakfast, and can often be found thinking aloud on Twitter @rrrubenstein.
