The Promise of the Pear Tree

It was in the iridescent green that I caught a glimpse of the future. The barren panorama that I had been trudging was wearing on me. All around the terrain looked like a dry Martian landscape. A useless vista. As I lifted my eyes to heaven it was like hell rained down on me. I don't remember much except the sound of bombs and explosions. It was as though the ground had opened up and was taking no prisoners. The doorway that got me to this place had been heralded to be a haunted one. No one ever heard it creaking open because they were either asleep, away, or in another room and not in earshot of the rusty hinges that held it to the frame of the house. Had I known then what I know now I wouldn't have gone through that door. What started off as a family-fun day with a picnic and then scary stories around a bonfire that night about the haunted door at our granny's house had turned into an experience none of us would forget. I rushed the door with every bit of irreverence I could retrieve. Hoping to elicit some laughs from my cousins and disprove the mysteries of the door I threw myself into the door dramatically. Everyone there now says they saw it open by itself only moments before I rammed into it. I fell to the floor unconscious. My body was there...but I was somewhere else.

It was as though I had entered some sort of an astral plane. Although, I'm still not entirely sure I believe in that stuff, I couldn't deny that I was no longer at my grandmother's house. I couldn't deny that once I rushed through...my reality bent. Had others experienced this? Was this some kind of karma I had stored up? Whatever questions I may have had would have to wait. My task at hand was immediate. Survive and thrive. Could I ever be normal after this experience? When I walked through that door my eyes began to see what the people who lived there saw. There was no going back. This sensory experience seemed so unfair yet so necessary. An entire country was shifting. Yes, the earth was shifting but so was every single ideal held by the people. The chaotic chasms that were forming scattered us as we ran. The adrenaline coursing through our veins seemed to gather into its own independent form and project itself into the atmosphere. Atmos-fear. The sky had become pure particulate. There was no warning. There was nothing predictable we could cling to in order to navigate our way out of the hellscape. And, so, I was alone.

You see, I had been given a gift. A treasure. The opportunity to feel "with" the war-torn population. It was a feat that couldn't have been accomplished with money because I had none. I couldn't have traveled there had I wanted to. But, for some reason I had unquestionably been taken there. Was I a time-traveler? Was this bi-location? My cousin said she screamed at me the entire time but I never heard her. All I could hear was the sound of the ground. From some obscure small western town I found myself touching down like an involuntary nomad being dropped from the sky. This place was definitely eastern, definitely desert. And, in the distance I could see a pear tree. In the middle of the shrapnel clouds it radiated. It stood glowing like a freshly polished emerald with the inside of the jewel sparkling with the lights of Istanbul, New York, and Dubai combined. It was my beacon of hope for which I had become entranced. I knew if I could reach it that once I arrived it would mean that all my experiences between where I was and where I needed to go would be immediately integrated. The live-wire of lawlessness and languishing would be finally grounded and discharged. And, that that would be the transmutation of the horror the occupants had experienced. The bridging of the gap between panic and displacement to the happiness of an exemplary Eden.

As I walked, my steps felt as though my feet had been chained. The air was hot and dry and even the evaporation of my breath was dehydrating me. As I made my way across the desert I began to instinctively understand the promise of the Pear tree. There was no voice from heaven only dawning realizations that a way was being made. And, then the tree itself spoke. A poem of hope.

Trodding treacherous

Blinding bletcherous

A way is being made.

Afghanistan you will rise from the dust

Your plight will not go undiscussed

Through visions and dreams and the parlance of a poet

Your resurrection is impending even if you don't know it

Your snow covered mountains will drip with the dew of youth

Your justice is being nursed at the breast of a sleuth

The fertility of your southeast plain

Will yield one hundred times the pleasure for every piece of pain

As I grabbed the trunk a rich, sticky sap wept across my fingers and palms supporting my grip. I scaled the Pear tree. Its top-most branches advanced into the exosphere. Its leaves lush and spreading against the expanse tickling the stars like a mother does a cooing infant. Her greatest reward the laughter of her offspring. The pears sparkled like iridescent Jade. It was here that I caught a glimpse of the future. Here is a poem about it:

• In this space all worries have stopped
• The poor are turned into the rich
• And freedom will never again be cropped
• Peace will maintain a perfect pitch
• The bounty of the Pear tree I enjoyed with my mouth and hand
• The promise of the Pear reverberates throughout your sand
• A light shines in the darkness even now for Afghanistan

I mumbled this poem as I came back to consciousness on the floor of my grandmother's kitchen. After everyone was assured I was ok they did give me the laughs I'd hoped to elicit. It was a strange experience to go from feel-good family time in America to wading through the sands of a crumbling Afghanistan. I know I'm forever changed for the better and it is one of my utmost desires that this paradise of pomegranates will be as well.