This is the pear tree your grandparents planted the year I was born. It was their promise to the future, something that would survive long after they were gone. By the time I started school it was already more than twice my height, the passing of my childhood years marked out in the view from my bedroom window. From springtime’s clouds of blossom through summer’s fruit-laden bounty and autumn’s bright coloured leaves to the bare-branched majesty of winter and round again, this tree was always there. It taught me to know and love the seasons and helped me buy my first guitar, paid for with every penny earned from three autumns sweeping leaves and two summers picking pears.
This is the tree that provided half our street with pears. Sweet, juicy pears that ripened early and rotted on the branch if left unpicked. I used those pears for making perry in that endless summer after A-levels when the world was full of possibility, but everything seemed so uncertain still. You’ll know what I mean soon enough. The waiting was unbearable, the weight of expectation huge. I got the grades I needed but the perry was undrinkable.
This is the tree your father and I danced under in another long, hot summer on the night he first asked me to marry him.
This is the tree the cat got stuck in. You’ll be too young to remember but you must have often heard the tale. Of how the magpies taunted Timmy while he clung there terrified, and how your grandpa climbed up to bring him down to safety.
This is the tree you fell out of when you were five and your dad and I had left you with your grandparents to have a weekend by ourselves.
This is the tree I wrote a song about when I spent Easter here while your grandparents were away on a cruise, and you were off skiing with your dad. I was still getting used to the idea of spending holidays alone then and it was a lonely time for the tree too. The house next door had recently been sold for redevelopment and its garden cleared.
This is the tree whose picture hangs on our living room wall, my favourite of the many your grandpa painted after he retired. It means even more to me since that biting cold day last spring when we buried his ashes under the tree, the ground so hard it was a struggle to dig the hole. When we added grandma’s ashes barely six months later, the sun shone with a brightness that mocked my grief.
This is the pear tree the developers want to cut down so they can fit an extra house on the plot. Sentiment won’t pay for skiing holidays, was your dad’s response when I told him I wanted to keep my childhood home. He says we should look to the future now. But as you know, your dad and I don’t always agree.
