You pick an apple. > Ahh, the first apple of the year from your very own tree.
Or, not your own tree, but the tree you planted with your own little hands.
The tree is ownerless, a master of itself -- if that makes any sense. You
polish its cheeks, giving it a nice shine. Not as shiny as the very first
apple you picked, but close. You reminisce that moment for a bit, and let out
a sigh: 'To be young again...'