White Blossoms

There is not much in the small lot behind the house. Scattered patches of brown mar the green grass; a small doghouse lies against the fence, and an untrimmed rosebush skims the wall of the house. A rectangle of bark contains a table, chairs, and a fire bowl. A small, cheap grill is tucked into one corner. A potted lemon tree sits on the concrete steps. An apple tree rises against the fence. Overshadowing all is the cherry tree, its grey branches rising majestically from the broad trunk.
Looking to the left end, a field of redwood bark can be seen to fill a rectangular area. In this rectangle sits a small glass-topped table, covered in debris from the overhanging plants looming over from the neighbor’s yard. Four forlorn chairs surround it, covered in the same debris. These chairs are seldom used, except for a few days in the summer. Between the table and the house stands a fire bowl, a small, wrought-iron affair complete with a covering to prevent sparks from leaping into the surrounding area. Tucked into a corner, away from everything else, is the grill. It is small and black, and it has broken so many times that the family that lives there has taken to replacing the flame-spreader with a circular saw blade, which is just as functional – if not as visually appealing – as an expensive replacement part.
The center of the small lot behind the house is grass. The grass is green, but patches of deep brown soil are speckled throughout it; the owners do not keep an immaculate lawn. A strip of trampled grass hugs the fence, marking the patrol path of the dog. Once the strip was bare earth, but the dog is old and sickly; she cannot pace her circuit as often as she would like. In the rain, she takes refuge in a freshly-painted dog house situated close to the fence. It features a window so that she can keep her watch on the area from within the comfort of a waterproof box. It is not as good as patrolling, but it will have to do until she is well again. Surrounding the entire area is the fence. Although it is made of redwood, the fence is old and falling into disrepair. Parts of it have fallen down in the high winds that plague the region, and some sections are propped up by makeshift contraptions of steel pipe and baling wire. The fence is due for replacement any time, but that is too expensive for the owners to consider while it is still standing. Much of the small lot behind the house shows the same state of disrepair.
Then, in the right hand corner, there is the cherry tree. The tree was planted in remembrance. It was planted in remembrance of a past that is no more, in remembrance of a father whose childhood was spent on a New York cherry orchard. The tree is the dominating feature of the small lot behind the house. It dwarfs the afterthought of an apple tree planted alongside. It overshadows the small grill tucked into a corner. It draws the eyes upwards from the patchy grass. It rules the eyes and the mind, for the tree is the center of memories. It is with the tree that the head of the household remembers his father. It is with the tree that the children remember birthday parties held beneath its blossoms. It is with the tree that all the people in that house remember the death of family. The tree helps them remember.
In the spring, I have sat in the small lot behind the house. The air is filled with birdsong and the scent of cherry blossoms wafting on the breeze. The blossoms bloom in the beginning of April, marking the birthday of the youngest member of the household. The tree, adorned in its springtime white, has been the backdrop for many birthday parties and Easter egg hunts. Later in spring, the blossoms turn to buds. A net is placed over the emerald leaves to protect the growing fruit from thieving blue jays and marauding blackbirds. I have stood beneath its limbs when the cherries turn to deepest maroon, ushering in summer. The gleeful cries of the neighborhood children mingle with the song of the birds as the owners share the abundant crop. I have watched the brown leaves fall as autumn sweeps the land. Now, in winter, I look out at the leafless branches – dead yet alive, thin yet sturdy, barren yet majestic – forming a wooden web against the sky.
Strong, beautiful, reminiscent, the tree is many things. Sometimes, it almost seems sentient. The year the person whose childhood the tree honored died, there was barely a harvest. No children cried in glee while picking the excess that year; the tree itself was in mourning. The tree was planted in remembrance of a childhood. Now, it serves as remembrance of the man. When the owners look at it, they remember. They remember a loving father, a caring grandfather, a great man. They can see his face before them once more and remember the good times. They remember him pushing his grandchildren in the swing that no longer stands, but the tree was there. The tree remembers. The tree is the constant in the small lot behind the house. Other fixtures change; plants wither and die, new ones are planted, furniture and fixtures are rearranged and replaced, but the tree is always there. It has stood for years, and it will stand for years to come. When all else changes, the tree will remain.

--Max