Under the Pear Tree

This season is one of the warmest I can remember; the sun is hot overhead, beating down on the trees and grass, making them wilt slightly. Normally so vibrant, the leaves have lost some of their lustre and become dull in the August heat. Now and then a light breeze eases some of the heat, cool enough to dry the sweat on my forehead. I’m glad I tied my hair up today.

As I walk deeper into the orchard, the trees grow thicker, and I can instantly feel the heat of the sun fade as the shade cast by the fruit trees spreads further across the dirt path. The air here is cooler, and the fragrant butterfly, summersweet, and lilac bushes fill me with a calm I have not felt in such a long time. Honeybees, butterflies, and ladybugs float around me like dazed little clouds, finding just as much joy in the flowers and shade as I am. My heart lifts just a little from its sorrow, and I find it easier to make my way to my destination.

With one hand, I raise my skirt a little higher to avoid soiling it too much as I climb the small hill to my pear tree. It’s been my tree since I was a baby, when my father planted it as a seedling before I was born. He and my mother decided, whether they had a son or a daughter, to plant a tree for their firstborn. It was such a beautiful gesture that they made it a tradition, and so my youngers each have a tree of their own, nestled in the orchard with all the others.

It’s only a small hill, barely a mound, and so still benefits from all the shade cast by the other trees. There are leaves scattered on the ground, along with a few pieces of fruit knocked down by squirrels. My father always curses them, but I see it differently; squirrels need to eat too, and they live in trees after all. How can we be upset with them for being themselves? One cannot argue with nature; after all, when the trees wilt or bare little fruit, we do not curse them for underproducing. It’s simply nature, doing what it does.

Though, sometimes nature can be cruel. If one believes that war is the nature of man, then this war is an act of nature. I can still remember when the paperboy ran down our dirt road, waving the newspaper in his hand, shouting at the top of his voice: “War, Germany has declared war!” I remember the basket of freshly picked apples fall from my hands, but I do not remember the sound they made as they hit the earth. My heart stopped; my breath hitched in my throat as I clutched my chest. I remember my father embrace my mother, who had gone weak in the knees. I turned to my brothers, who had expressions of anger and determination on their sun-beaten faces. There was no way of knowing that, all too soon, two years would pass without seeing those sweet faces.

But what I remember the most is not an event, or an expression; it was a feeling, a feeling of desperation and longing to see my Thomas. The words of the paperboy were ringing in my ears as I ran down our narrow driveway, away from our modest farmhouse, and down the road to Thomas’s house. The images are a blur now: trees rushing by, dust stinging my eyes and making me choke, the little white house drawing closer and closer. And my Thomas, waiting for me on the porch as though he knew I would be running to him. His arms closed around me, pulling me in tight, and he kissed the top of my head, whispering in my ear: “Calm as a pear tree, Lizzie, calm as a pear tree.”

Calm as a pear tree; ever since we were young, that is what he would say to me whenever I felt afraid or overwhelmed, even when I was angry. That day I felt all of those things, and more. Two years have gone by, and we are no closer to winning this war, or seeing the ones we love home safe and sound. My brothers write to us when they can, and my parents and I huddle in close whenever we receive letters from the post. But the letters I secretly covet the most are those from Thomas, and only his do I read beneath my tree. The long branches, the singing leaves, and the subtle sweet scent of the pears calm me, making it the best place to read his lovingly scrawled words.

I received a letter this morning. It has been a while since one was delivered. I know the post is unreliable right now, and often letters will be dated weeks earlier than when one receives it. But it’s from him, my Thomas, and I have to believe that means he is alive. Carefully I open the envelope; it is speckled with dirt from the war-front, and my address is slightly smudged. Thankfully, the letter inside is mostly untouched by the grime, and I gently unfold it. His words, though hastily written, are as clear to me as the morning church bells from the town.

My dearest Lizzie,

How are you? Is your family well? Was the orchard fruitful this season? There are so many questions I want to ask you, if only to feel like I am back there with you, holding your hand and walking under the trees again. I wish I could be; I would give anything to be back home with you.

Thank you for the letter, and the extra pairs of socks and mittens; they really came in handy. It gets so cold over here that I barely take them off! The tin of biscuits was also greatly appreciated by myself and the other men, so thank you for that as well.

You know I would never lie to you about how it is over here, but I can’t say too much, otherwise the post will blacken most of this letter. So I will say this: I am fine, I am well-fed, and I love you. I think of you every second of every day, and I think about coming home to you. You believe me, right? I AM coming home to you, Lizzie. Keep this letter and place it under your pillow. Keep it close, as a reminder of my promise. And I ask you to do the following, for me: be happy, smile every day, and eat a pear for me.

All my love and soul,

Thomas

My cheeks are wet with tears and I lightly brush them away. His letters always make me cry, and I sometimes curse him for it, but I always love him for it too. I keep all of his letters in my special memory box, which sits on the nightstand next to my bed. I will keep this one close, as he asked. Maybe it will act as a good luck charm and bring him home to me.

The bark of my pear tree is warm and comforting against my back. I let my head tilt back and rest against it, and I close my eyes, allowing myself to listen to the cool breeze dance through the leaves and gently caress my cheeks and forehead. I imagine his arms around me, his hand in mine, and his lips on my head. I can hear his words in my ear, and I smile, clutching his letter close to my heart. I open my eyes and spy a low-hanging pear, gently bobbing just within my grasp. I pluck it and run my thumb over its smooth pale-yellow skin. Calm as a pear tree, Thomas, I think as I smile and take a bite, some juice trickling down my chin.

“I love you too.”