The Pear Tree Tale
At the corner of our yard, bordering a big wide city alley, is Joe’s pear tree. It towers over the far more pruned apple tree in the fenced-in yard of Mrs. Go, and we see them both from the back deck. My first late summer here, I saw the pears in busy clusters, weighing down the branches as they turned from green to gold, ripe and show-offy with the clear assumption they were the pride of the house.
In spring, the pear tree flowered lush as cherry blossoms in a Kurosawa film, and the petals fell like snow when the breeze blew in from Lake Michigan.
Several summers passed and Joe diligently gathered the pears, up on a high ladder to harvest every last one, a sixth sense for the perfect time for each. Before the squirrels. Before the rain.
Last year the pears did not come. I saw one or two, and asked Joe, as he meticulously clipped jasmine flowers for tea.
“Where are the pears?”
“They don’t come,” he replied, in his barely audible mumble.
This year we saw the flowers come and go in the spring. Michael and I caught the evening breeze here, watching back porch life, during this spooky pandemic time.
He sat here for breakfast and watched the dawn come early summer. And the pears grew, more than one could count, clustering like siblings in their “pods”, holding tight to branches, as they ripen into gold.
Olive came here yesterday, and taking in the burgeoning branches made a plan to steal some of them, under cover of night. Her Papa coyly suggested this, to give drama to the fairy tale we crafted.
Instead, we chose one branch and Olive picked a pear. A miniature little thing, like you’d see on the banquet table in ancient China.
Olive fell asleep with the notion I’d wake her at midnight and we’d tip-toe down the stairs to gather more. But, though I was awake most of the night, I didn’t wake her, and left her to sleep in the other room. Her first overnight here since winter, a magical distraction to my impending grief.
Today is Sunday. I sit on the porch and watch the sunrise above the pear tree. The air, soft and sticky with foreboding. Thinking of my treasure.
Thinking of Michael, and bracing for the dawn.
Jamie O’Reilly