The Pear Tree

That pear tree had been planted the day he was born. And every year, the tree branched higher and higher to the sky. As a lad, he took wonder in the flowering branches. He loved the smell and beauty of the blossoms as their petals caressed his cheek. He would spend hours under its coverage, reading a book or enacting wonderous adventures in its boughs. Sometimes he was a pirate, surveying the sea from the crow’s nest. Sometimes he was a jungle cat, watching his prey drink water under his concealed perch. Sometimes, he was the world’s famous trapeze artist, receiving thunderous applause for his spectacular performance.

Once, he managed to make a sizable fort in the tree with a few of his mother’s sheets. He was proud of his work until his foot caught, and he crashed from the tree. Although bumped and bruised, he was back in the tree the next day, despite his mother’s protests. He found every way to live in that tree as much as he was permitted. He was not often alone as many birds, bugs, and squirrels found residence upon the tree.

As he grew, he cared for the tree. He trimmed away weeds and dead branches. The tree was lovely, even in the dead of winter. He would laze for hours at the trunk, imagining his life. He had many first kisses beneath those snow-white blossoms and married the love of his life beneath the hanging fruit, a wreath of pear blossoms adorning her head like a fairy crown as they became husband and wife.

His children held the same fascination for the tree as he had, creating extraordinary adventures and tales amongst the branches. They would partake of the fruit and laugh with sticky faces and sticky fingers. His wife would tenderly gather the ripe fruit and make pies, jams, and preserves from the harvest. Many summer and autumn nights, the family was cradled beneath as they enjoyed the sweet treats.

When his wife passed, her request was to be buried under the tree. He would visit her and the tree every day. What had once been a place of life fell into dismal sadness. It wasn’t long that the pear tree ceased to produce the sweet fruit nor shower them with white blossoms. The tree mourned.

The man aged until the day he was in his sunset years. Hunched and riddled with arthritis, he still paid his wife and his tree a visit every day. He was surprised to see tiny white blossoms dotting the tree on this particular day, and a singular ripe pear hung within reach. He would not believe it! The tree had not shown life in nearly ten years, but here it stood, as beautiful and as magnificent as its most prime day in his boyhood. And the pear! He felt his mouth salivate as he reached for it. It took a little finagling and reaching, but his boney fingers grasped its soft flesh and plucked it. He eyed it as it rested in his hands, and, for a moment, he was uncertain if it was real. But its sweet smell hit him with its decadent fragrance. Slowly, he hobbled to the trunk and eased himself down the trunk to sit. He closed his eyes and bit into it. Every chew stirred old memories: pirate, panther, trapeze performer. He imagined his wife’s face the first day he kissed her, both as his love and then as his wife. He remembered his children’s laughter and how much life this tree had seen.

When he opened his eyes, his wife stood before him with the smile that melted his heart. She extended a hand to him and aided him to his feet. She kissed him as if she hadn’t seen him in years. Together they walked away but, when he looked back, the pear tree was gone.