Every September, he walked through the orchard with pruning shears in his pocket, touching branches, turning fruit gently in his hands, judging ripeness by instinct.

Our eight-year-old son, Samuel, followed him everywhere.

One Saturday afternoon, Samuel reached toward a bright red apple hanging low enough for him to grab.

“Not that one yet, buddy.”

“But it looks ready.”

Patrick smiled.

“Looks can fool you.

Twist gently.”

Samuel wrapped his fingers around the apple and pulled.

It resisted.

Patrick laughed.

“When something is ready, you shouldn’t have to fight it.”

I stood on the porch holding our three-year-old daughter, Hannah.

I remember wishing I could freeze the scene.