Blessed Fruit

For four long years, the pear tree was barren. Only scarce white blossoms dotted the green, elliptic leaves. It was the only pear tree in all of the orchard. It was 18 feet tall and once wonderfully shaped. Pears were Albert’s favorite fruit. He would eat one every day after lunch, slicing pieces with his Korean War veteran pocketknife as he ate. He would sit in the sunroom gazing out across the orchard. Apple, orange, and lemon trees populated the backyard with the cherished D’Anjuo pear tree in the center towering over all. In the fall season, the leaves changed to an almost purple hue and the pears were ready to harvest. And with the winter, the leaves fell, along with Albert as he succumbed to the cancer.

For a fifth year without Albert, autumn was blanketing the small town. Life had become a repeating cycle for Gwendolyn. She would wake, eat a light breakfast, go to the market, have lunch, and then roam through the orchard until either supper time or the chill of the air carried her back inside. She found herself routinely checking the pear tree, even in the off season. She longed to see the tree filled with sweet fruit that her sweet husband had loved so. But since his death, the tree was as empty as the cottage house she quietly inhabited alone.

Going into the town market, she was planning to prepare a nice chicken soup to warm her body and soul. She found a small hen that would suffice her needs, bunches of carrots and celery, rosemary, thyme, and onions. She also picked up the essentials: fresh baked bread, milk, eggs, and butter.

The checkout line was short. Two workers stood behind the counter – a woman on the landline and a man tabulating the cost of the groceries for the lady in line ahead of her. The woman spoke into the phone.

“Inventory is restocked on Sundays, so in three days on Monday, we should have that in stock.”

She held the phone to her shoulder and asked the man, “What’s today’s date?”

“October 13th,” he replied.

She returned to the call.

“Yes, on the 16th. OK? Alright, you take care now. Thanks. Bye-bye.”

Gwendolyn’s face was grim. She could feel the sadness in her skin. It was Albert’s birthday. She knew this as soon as she had woken up, alone in her big bed. She no longer tried to forget about it. It was harder to deny the truth than it was to simply sit in revered silence and be especially mournful for a day. The man smiled at her as the lady took her groceries out the door.

“Good morning, Gwendolyn. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, managing a soft smile.

With the hen boiling gently on a low flame, Gwendolyn ventured outside. The air was cool and pleasant, but the faint chill was quite intense to her thin frame. She wrapped her sweater tightly around herself as she stared up at the overcast sky. The crisp grass crunched under her tennis shoes. She fought the urge to go right to the pear tree, deciding to save the lovely memories and the pain for the last leg of her walk. The last darkening lemons hung limply. The shiny, bright red apples were hanging heavy, pulling the branches down. The oranges were mostly green. November would bring their ripeness. Her pace was faster than normal. Her body was moving unconsciously. She hardly looked up to the trees until she found herself at the pear tree. She sighed, staring at the grass stains on her shoes, and slowly brought her head up.

The tree was just as barren as the day before and the weeks before and the months and years before. Now, the neatly manicured foliage was ragged and uneven without Albert’s care. Tears welled in her eyes.

She looked away, ashamed of the state of the tree, of all of them. Albert had been so strong and determined before the cancer. He cultivated the orchard with all of the love in his heart. Gwendolyn was too weak to keep up now that she was all alone.

A raindrop fell on her forehead. She stared up at the grey clouds billowing in the sky. She sighed. As her eyes dropped, her gaze caught on the top of the pear tree. A brilliant flash of red was nestled in the purple leaves. Her breath hitched. Without a second thought, she dashed toward the house.

She lugged the 15-foot ladder from the shed to the center of the orchard. She propped it up against the pear tree and uneasily began to climb up while carrying a telescopic fruit picker. Reaching the top, she could see above her one green pear with a beautiful, red-blushed spot. She wept with joy.

“Oh, Bert, you’re here,” she cried.

She wiped her eyes and extended the fruit picker upward. Her trembling hand shook the pole. It clunkily banged against the branches, knocking leaves into a whirlwind tumble to the ground. She reached the pole upward as far as she could manage. Her wrist strained. The pole slipped from her grasp and crashed down to the ground. She muttered under her breath. She climbed from the top rung, placing her foot onto the thin branch. Her papery hands scraped across the branch bark as she pulled herself up. The rain began to pour down. She reached her hand up, her grasp falling a foot short of the fruit. She climbed higher, hardly able to hold her own weight. Her fingernail grazed the leaves surrounding the pear. She smiled wildly.

“Yes…Yes!”

The toe of her tennis shoe bent and slipped on the wet bark. She fell backward. There was a sudden snap married with a few brief moments of pain. A dull thud came in the grass next to her head. Her hand twitched toward the red-blushed pear in the grass just inches from her fingertip. She fell still, the blessed fruit just out of reach.