Trees We Lay Amongst

It was a large orchard; the pear trees scraped against the sky and velvet white petals blanketed the ground. In February, petals took to the wind and traveled towards his house, crevicing themselves in his windowsill, slowly rotting as February turned into May. May would ripen the pears, gold and green teardrops heavy on the tree's limbs. The pear trees grew in rows, blurred rows. Their long branches reached to greet the sky, to kiss the searing California sun. But now the steady trunks of the trees were reduced to black and withered bark, scorched by fire. A thinned charred pear orchard.

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He began to scan his room, sleep creeping away from his eyes. His room was small and damp, and humidity clung to the walls like two lovers. Books were on every surface threatening to topple empty water bottles. A scuffed suitcase leaned on cracked calculus and American history textbooks. Piles of unfolded clothing lay next to the suitcase collecting stains and tiny insects. Nirvana and John Denver posters gripped the walls, and Keith Haring’s colorful people danced around the posters. The room was peaceful, the untidiness mirrored his mind and he felt safe in the discord. Getting up, he stretched his long untanned body straining to touch his feet. His checkered boxers pulled tight over his lean thighs. He slowly went over to his window, his waking joints creaking as he navigated through crushed energy drinks. He cracked the window open, sunlight happily soaked up the darkness in the room. The window was cloudy, slightly waterstained from the brief rare rain last night, and he could remember when petals were caught there. He kept the thought taut in his mind as he jumped through his cluttered room, past his door, to the blue checkered bathroom.

Condensation hung to the mirror. He wiped away the dampness, then touched his acne-scarred face as he met himself. His russet hair grazed his eyelashes and his thin face curved in. He didn’t look at himself much as he didn’t find anything extraordinary, but decided to take himself in on his day before leaving. He constantly criticized himself, he found no beauty. His nose was aquiline, a strongly curved marmoreal nose enlivened with a tinge of blood. His eyes were gray, sleep-deprived eyebags framing rounded glum globes of silver. His gaze traveled downwards, he hated his body too. The way it slid in and out, bones jutting against pale translucent skin.

“Miles, come on. Get ready.” he heard a heavy voice from downstairs.

He went back into his room, the sun had risen some more and he quickly put on a worn ABBA shirt. He took a shallow breath as he started to pack again. Packing was an arduous process, he stuffed clothing into cramped areas, air puffing out as they relented. He continued like this for 30 minutes, putting on a pair of cinnamon corduroys as he hurried around the room. He managed to find some half-drunken energy drinks and he sat on the floor packing his albums, sipping the warm muted liquid. His room was losing its chaos, and he could see the scuffed wood floors now and the dust that had outlined his life. His books were another huddle, piles, and piles of worn, beloved delicate spines, prone to breaking into soft pieces. He figured he’d come back to them after breakfast. He sat in the dying symphony, feeling small as the book towers surrounded him. He began to recollect on the pear petals, his mind drifting to the dandelion crown he once wore, and who made it. He heard soft padding of feet, turning he saw his mother. She had a warm face and her eyes politely sagged. Her hair was peppered, gray hairs muting her once chestnut color. She motioned for him, her wrinkles smiling and frowning. He made his way out of his room, brushing his untidy hair into a more uniform shape.

He followed her downstairs into the kitchen, the colors were teal and neutral, a theme for the house, and the front door wobbled in the wind. The farmhouse had been lived in, breathing in dust and exhaling groans. It held a simple beauty, brandishing rotting blue shutters, and a creaking white porch that held onto dirty footprints. He had always loved it, even though blue and white farmhouses in northern California weren’t uncommon. He sat down on the unstable wicker chair next to his father reading a newspaper. His father had finished a plate of eggs and bacon, a fork perched on the plate, congealed gold egg yolk coating it. He opted for a bowl of instant oatmeal, pouring in cream and maple syrup, then coating it with cinnamon and cloves. An image of fingers weaving the dandelions danced in his head, and he glanced through the screen door out at the burnt pear orchard. He abruptly put down his spoon on the table and got up.

“I think I’m going to go for a walk…” he said softly.

“Miles, now? We have to be at campus to move you in.” his mother turned from the skillet.

“I’ll be back in 15. I swear.”

His father raised his bushy unkempt eyebrows over his newspaper, gesturing to let him go, his mother nodded and he left. He knew where he was going, keeping the soft thought of her in his mind as he entered the singed orchard. He felt a gasp leave his chest as he entered the orchard, feeling the stillness, the deadness. He hadn’t gone there since after it was burned, and he didn’t want to. He wasn’t looking for anything but wanted to remember the orchard and her here one last time. He walked deeper and deeper into the vast orchard, taking it in. Walking on drooping grass he felt a bud, he looked at the tree and saw a shy pear blossom, it surprised him, and he touched its blanched petals. He looked around, taking in the trees in front of him that was almost unscathed by the fire; time had peeled back the blackened bark to reveal new shoots of beauty. He surrounded himself with them, laying down on the healed grass, laying amongst the trees. His mouth was agape and his eyes were wet as he absorbed the beauty under a burgeoning sky full of pear trees. His past stifled trauma pushed up like the new shoots. He closed his eyes and let himself remember.

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Dust flew up and circled their heads as the school bus drove off, his eyes gravitated to the pear orchard filling his view. Houses were next to the orchard, the closest being white and blue and the other house was hers. It was completely brown with worn green accents. She stood in front of it, the brown house towering over her. Amelie had strong features and tanned skin that brought out large tired eyes. She had jade eyes that were framed by purple eye-bags. He felt his eyes jump back to the trees, he turned to her and grinned.

“Amelie, come on.” he nodded his head at the orchard.

She stuck her tongue out at him and took off towards it. She laughed, hair blowing in the wind, and dumped her bookbag off at the entrance of the orchard. Briefly, her shirt raised quickly and he glimpsed a growing bruise blooming on her stomach. His face tightened and he entered the orchard after her, the bruise stuck on his mind.

Entering the orchard was like entering another world, the branches were young and nimble and shaded his eyes as he ran after Amelie. The leaves were great big fans, thin veins climbing up them in pretty patterns. He continued running after her, touching the trees, hearing the birds, and then finally caught her. They laughed as they fell to the ground, and he saw a glimpse of pain on her face as they layed down on the lush grass. He looked up and saw the trees sway in the light afternoon breeze, seeing the hanging pears threatening to fall and leave big bruises on their heads. He looked around and spied three pears, he piled them up between his legs. Biting into one, juice ran down his face, the pear was drunk with sweetness and he nibbled on them until his belly was round. Amelie’s breathing slowed and she sat up watching him, he watched her. He began to think about her bruises, how they seemed to grow on her body recently.

“I wish I could leave,” she said, a somber face had replaced her smile.

“Why?” he said, concerned, watching her.

She sighed and began rummaging around for dandelions.

“I’m sick of my life. I want to leave my house, my dad... I guess college is the only way I can.” she sighed, weaving the dandelions into a dainty crown.

“Also, the orchard has been producing less and less, so my dad is stressed… and mean.” She grew silent.

“I want to leave before it gets worse” she resumed, giving a solemn pat on the trunk of a nearby tree.

She continued to weave in silence. He thought about her bruises, her sad face, and the declining orchard.

“Let's make a pact… let’s leave, make sure we both get out of here” he smiled, scooting closer to her.

“Deal,” she tentatively smiled as she placed the finished dandelion flower crown on his head.

Under the shade of the grove, they made a pact amongst the pear trees, they spit in their hands and grasped them together. Saliva mingling with pear juice, sweat, and promises.

They stayed like that until the afternoon greeted the evening. The pear trees glowed with the rising of the heated night. Wisps of remaining light danced pirouettes around their silhouettes, and they could see lights in their houses. He stood up, scratching his belly and repositioning his crown. Hesitantly she got up from the smushed grass and stretched.

“Don’t forget about our promise” she grinned at him.

He smiled and said, “I won’t.”

She beamed, and he could see her skipping home through the trees. Just before she left his view, he saw another large red bruise on her upper thigh, and before he could ask her she disappeared among the trees.

He ran home and the hot night seemed to blur until he was placing his flower crown on his bedside. He looked out his window before he went to bed, catching her bedroom night flicking off. He went to bed dreaming of college, promises, and pears.

He woke suddenly feeling the heat. Red light burrowed past his eyelids and he got up, trails of sweat running down his back. His parents abruptly entered his room, pulling his tanned body up, soon dragging him out the front door. The world was ablaze, the wind was roaring and fire painted the clouds crimson. Gray smog swirled, and smoke entered his lungs. In the confusion he finally saw what was on fire, it was the brown and green accented house, the windows had been blown out and the house was almost engulfed. Amelie’s house was in flames, and all he could think about was that Amelie was in it. He pushed past his mother to run to her, but he was caught by his stern father. His mother held him tight, as he scratched her arms raw, screaming. The fire was climbing in the sky and wind grasped it, carrying it to the orchard. One pear tree caught aflame and soon the entire orchard was screeching and crackling as burnt trees filled their noses. He was crying now, tears carving through his smoke-covered face and his eyes were blank. He held on to his mother, hearing fire trucks arrive, watching his life and their promise burn.

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He opens his eyes, burned grass rustling near him, fresh tears running down his face as he mouths I’m sorry into the trees. He takes in the beauty of them towering above him, thinking about Amelie and their promise, how she never got out and he did. He lays amongst the pear trees thinking of her.