Promises

I lay on my stomach, the grass tickling the skin in the gap where my jumper didn’t quite meet the waist of my jeans, just below my belly button. The sun warmed the small of my back, despite the cool Autumn air. The light danced as the wind played in the leaves of the small tree beside me. I felt it pass along my back, challenging the warmth of the sun. The breeze won for a moment. I felt the hairs on my back stand on end.

Reaching back, I tugged at my jumper to close the gap between it and my jeans. For a moment I was protected from the cold breeze. As soon as I rested my hand beneath my head again, my jumper betrayed me and exposed the skin of my back again.

I sat up so that my jumper and jeans could meet in happy unison and rest comfortably together to protect me from the cool air. Squinting, I looked up into the filtered light above my head.

I had planted the tree with Mum. One of my first memories. The tree had been as tall as my four-year-old self. We’d tended it together and watched it grow. Every year I would watch and wait for the fruit that Mum promised would come. Each year we’d hope. Each year we’d wait. Each year we’d be disappointed as the tree never produced the luscious green pears Mum promised. Each year we’d walk to the little fruit store at the local shops.

“No pears this year?” Mark would ask as we placed our usual Autumn purchase of speckled green fruit on the counter. We’d told him about all our hopes for our little pear tree and I think he became just as invested in its progress as we were.

“Not this year,” Mum would answer. And I would shake my head as I stood beside her. Then we’d traipse back up the hill towards home before sprawling on the grass below our pear tree. We’d have our pear picnic whether it produced fruit for us or not. We both looked at each other with brave faces and laughed and ate our pears that we’d bought from Mark, pretending we didn’t care. In reality, we were both secretly disappointed in our little pear tree.

I gently picked up the pear I had brought down to the tree with me. It was soft, tender, and easily bruised. As I bit into the flesh, the sugary juice ran down my chin. Sweet and warm. The cool breeze blew and began to dry it, sticky on my skin as I tried to wipe it away with the back of my hand. I pulled my knees up against my chest and took another bite. Sweet. Warm. Perfect. Gentle flavors awakened my taste buds. I wiped again at the trickle down my chin. Perfect. Yes it was perfect.

A few bites later my lips pursed. My eyes squeezed together and my tongue smacked against the top of my mouth as I hit the tart stringy part of the fruit near the core. I glanced beside me, expecting to meet Mum’s surprised eyes as she also shook her head at the tartness in the center of the sweet pear.

I swallowed and licked the juice from my lips. A mixture of sugary sweet, sour and something else. Salt. Yes, salt. I felt my cheeks were also somehow wet as I looked into the emptiness beside me. I pulled my knees even closer to my chest, exposing the small of my back again to the cool breeze despite my best efforts. Sticky fingers trying to pull the jumper back down.

I put the unfinished pear down on the grass beside me and looked up again at the filtered light between the leaves. The leaves that still had no fruit nestled in them, despite all of our hopes. All I could taste now in my mouth was salt. Washing away the tart, sour core of my being. You had to dig deep to get to it beneath the seemingly sweet, soft, gentle exterior. But deep beneath all that soft flesh you would find something tart and stringy at the core. A being that, despite all of Mum’s best promises, best efforts and tender care, had never produced the fruit she had hoped for.