The Glass Orchard

Wholeness is not the same as remaining untouched. Sometimes what breaks open is the first thing able to grow.

In Mara Vey’s orchard, the fruit ripened transparent. By late summer, every branch carried glass pears through which sunlight passed without warming them. Buyers came from the capital with padded crates and rejected anything bearing a bubble, seam, or clouded place. Mara’s father had taught her to listen before picking. Perfect fruit made no sound when tapped. Damaged fruit answered with a faint interior note. The morning after the hailstorm, Mara found the oldest tree surrounded by fragments. At its roots lay a pear split cleanly in two. Inside the broken glass, a seed had opened. A white root no thicker than thread reached between the shards into the soil.