Under the Pear Tree

They met each night under the pear tree in the back orchard. The only pear tree, oddly out of place in a field of apples, it had grown almost as if of its own accord. They chose it as a meeting place because of the mystery of the thing, itself. The lone pear tree, out of place in a vast society of normal expectations. The perfect place for a couple as out of place in society as the pear tree among apples.

He waited for her, back against the bark of the tree, watching the shadows of the late evening clouds drift across the meadows beyond the orchard. It was a peaceful scene, broken only by the few bursts of heat lightening in the distance. As he waited for her, he whittled at an old, petrified piece of wood, shaping it into a heart for her, when she came. And she would come, she always did.

The sun sank deeper into the horizon, and his heart quickened. It was nearing time for her to make her appearance, and he was as excited as the first night he had fallen in love with her. That night, the pear tree had been just a sprout in the soil, the moon younger and brighter, and all the hope in the world ahead. Tonight, the moon was dimmer, darker and less vibrant and the world itself seemed slower and less alive.

The word reverberated in his head. Alive. What did that even mean, in the bigger picture, anyway? Can one be alive and not live? Can one live, and not be alive? It certainly seemed to the man, as he sat under the tree, that a lot of people could be alive but not living, when the day-to-day grind overshadowed the joys in life. It seemed to the man, as he sat there contemplating all things, that living was passing him by as he struggled with the concept of being alive.

The sun set, and the shadows became solid around him as the moon struggled over the horizon. His love would be there soon, and all the worries of the world would fade away for a while. Being alive, under the pear tree with her was an entirely different form of living. All the things that make a life worth living were within her grasp, when he held her against his chest, the very air became alive with the love he had for her.

He looked up, with a slight sheen of tears in his old eyes and saw what he had been waiting for. A slight mist rose from the ground and the glow of the moon highlighted it as if the earth itself were alive with night magic. And there she was, as light as the mist in the forest and as bright as the new moon that had risen over the meadow to guide her way to him. Her bright eyes shimmered in the glow and the mist parted for her as she moved toward him. His heart soared as she came closer. Her ageless, timeless beauty the same today as it had been the day, he had first met her as a boy, barely holding on, freshly returned from the war with bits of foreign soil still ingrained under his skin. He had come to the pear tree with a rope and a plan, but there she had been, as if she knew that to him, living and being alive were one and the same, and pure torture.

He raised his hand and she pulled him to his feet, always the stronger of them, always able to hold him when he couldn’t hold himself. She lifted the old man as if her were a feather, to hold him against her. She didn’t speak. She never spoke anymore, but she didn’t have to. They both knew why they came here. He let a tear roll down his cheek as he tilted his head to the side to meet her kiss, the kiss that they both needed. As she smiled, her teeth glinted in the pale light filtering through the leaves of the pear tree. She lowered her mouth to his neck and they both sighed as his life and hers mingled together. As long as they met nightly, she sustained her life and his, and this is how they continued through the years, husband and wife and man and beast. The ties that bind, under the pear tree.