End of the Harvest

Last summer I worked on a small fruit farm near the village of Oakridge. Every morning we picked apples and pears until the sun grew too hot. On the final day, however, everything felt different. While we were loading the last crates onto the old red lorry, dark clouds appeared suddenly and heavy rain began to fall. We had already picked most of the fruit, but a few baskets still stood in the far field. The owner, Mr Ellis, shouted that we should hurry before the ground turned to mud. As we were running back with the baskets, my friend Lena slipped and dropped several pears. We stopped to help her, laughing despite the rain. By the time we finished, our clothes were completely soaked. Mr Ellis had prepared a small farewell lunch inside the barn. While we ate sandwiches and drank cold lemonade, he told us he had decided to sell the farm next year. Everyone became quiet for a moment. I had grown to love the early mornings and the smell of ripe fruit, yet I knew this was the end. After lunch we cleaned the tools and said our goodbyes. As I walked to the gate, Lena called out that she hoped we would work together again someday. I smiled and replied that if the weather stayed dry next summer, I would consider returning. The rain finally stopped as I reached the bus stop. Looking back at the empty orchard, I realised how much I would miss those long, tiring days.