“I like your apples,” she said.

Her name was Abbey McClain and she was the love of my life. We were five.

My father owned the grocery store in our small Tennessee town. Everyone knew everyone. Our town wasn’t even on a map.

We grew all the vegetables and fruits ourselves. The grocery had been in our family for years. Just like my grandfather and his father before him, I would get up at six in the morning to help my father tend to the crops.

I’d wake up when it was still dark and silently lie in bed for those last sweet minutes until I’d hear my father’s voice:

“Adam, get that bottom out of bed! Up and at ‘em!”

I’d hop out of bed and run downstairs to meet my dad. He’d ruffle my hair, put a cap on my head, and open the door for me and follow me outside. I could only do so much, but I did what I could.

Our store was the main place to go for groceries in our town, so my family was well known. But I wasn’t.

The adults knew me and I had friends, so don’t get me wrong. But the one person I wanted to notice me would never even look me in the eyes.

She did it only once: when we first met.

It was a year before Abbey McClain said she liked my apples. She had just moved to town and she was in my K-4 class. I first saw her on the playground before we had to go inside to start the day.

She was in a blue dress with lace on the edges. Her hay-colored hair was pulled up halfway with a bow. She was walking to the swing set.

She couldn’t get the swing going. She began to get frustrated. So, I walked right on over and gave her a push.

Abbey tossed her hair back over her shoulder, eyes shining with excitement. She looked me right in the eyes and smiled at me.

My heart stopped. I didn’t think. I just acted.

I saluted her and walked away.

Yes, I saluted.

That was the only time Abbey McClain had ever looked me in the eyes or even noticed me. I can’t blame her. If someone pushed me once on a swing, saluted me, and walked away, I wouldn’t pay them any attention either. But that didn’t stop me from loving her from far away.

So, you can imagine my excitement the day she walked up to me and told me she liked my apples.

I was helping out in my father’s store, as much as a five-year-old can. I was putting freshly picked corn from that morning into a basket near the window. I bent down to pick another one up and saw a pair of Mary Jane shoes.

Abbey had walked up in all of her five-year-old glory. She lightly tapped my shoulder and told me she liked my apples. I dropped the corn.

“The yellow ones are my favorite,” I said to her.

She smiled. “Mine too," she said.

I stared at her with my mouth open. “Wait here,” I said.

I ran to the back. I found the two freshest yellow apples I could find. They were still wet from the wash and firm on the edges. I brought them out to her.

She took a bite. So did I.