My grandma. Eighty-six. Every fall, she sends a box of apples.

The wooden box is nailed together by herself. The apples come from the tree in the yard. Not big, with wormholes. She wraps each one in newspaper. Stuffed full.
The shipping cost is more expensive than the apples.
I said, Grandma, don't send them anymore, you can buy everything in the city.
She said, The ones in the city aren't sweet.
Every year she sends them. Every year we can't finish eating them. Half go rotten.
Last year she fell. Her hand trembled. Still, she sent them.
The wooden box was crookedly nailed. There are fewer apples than before. Each one has a bruise.
She didn't wrap them well.
I peeled off the rotten parts. Sitting in the kitchen, eating them bite by bite.
The last one. Biting it open.
Inside, a note.
"This year I trembled, couldn't wrap well. Grandma will wrap better next year."
This fall is coming soon.
I haven't received the apples yet.