The cherry tree in my grandmother's vegetable garden is to be cut. It is rather hunched, with its leaves scattered about. It is wilted beside the young prune tree. My grandmother woke up one day and walked around, as is her habit, with no specific purpose, thoughts flowing smoothly around her, until she stopped, caught one, labeled it as a problem, stopped, caught another, labeled it as a solution and then woke me up.
"We will cut it down," she said "today."
My grandfather sat by it many times, winter and summer, looking out onto the road, never stepping on it, not one bit of curiosity towards the outside world. Not because he could not or would not possibly be interested, but because habit has established itself upon his brows, clouding his thoughts, his sight. Perhaps he did prefer to leave the street as it was in his memory. Perhaps, having stepped on it once was happiness, and to walk it again would be trite. His wooden chair knew how old the days had grown, how the memories persisted on the morning dew. It could feel the weeks, the seconds. It knew my grandfather had become weak, his hair gray. He sometimes pointed towards an airplane crossing:
"What is that, Anca? Can you tell me?"
"An airplane, Oti."
That was in the good days, when he still remembered my name. Those days he looked at me with weathered eyes and beneath his forehead I could still see a flicker.
"What is the time?"
"I don't know," I used to say. I did not want him to worry about time. Time would pass either way. Time is subjective and I did not want him to worry about it.
"In '65 we went down to the river. Did I tell you?"
"No."
He had told me, thousands of times. I knew the story by heart; I mouthed it while he was reciting.
My grandfather died in February and I forgot to say goodbye.
"Talk! Tell me what you know! Tell me something!"
I kneel to cry beside the chair. It remains quiet.
The cherry tree is to be cut today. The same cherry tree my grandfather sat beside, smoking his cigars, talking with young girls, spending his time, passing his years. Its trunk is full of memories that would fly with the wind, away from us, away from me. I am afraid of losing the one memory that I hold most precious. I have hidden it in the trunk for my grandfather. I may not be able to catch it in time.
My childhood died with the cherry tree.
"We will cut it down," she said "today."
My grandfather sat by it many times, winter and summer, looking out onto the road, never stepping on it, not one bit of curiosity towards the outside world. Not because he could not or would not possibly be interested, but because habit has established itself upon his brows, clouding his thoughts, his sight. Perhaps he did prefer to leave the street as it was in his memory. Perhaps, having stepped on it once was happiness, and to walk it again would be trite. His wooden chair knew how old the days had grown, how the memories persisted on the morning dew. It could feel the weeks, the seconds. It knew my grandfather had become weak, his hair gray. He sometimes pointed towards an airplane crossing:
"What is that, Anca? Can you tell me?"
"An airplane, Oti."
That was in the good days, when he still remembered my name. Those days he looked at me with weathered eyes and beneath his forehead I could still see a flicker.
"What is the time?"
"I don't know," I used to say. I did not want him to worry about time. Time would pass either way. Time is subjective and I did not want him to worry about it.
"In '65 we went down to the river. Did I tell you?"
"No."
He had told me, thousands of times. I knew the story by heart; I mouthed it while he was reciting.
My grandfather died in February and I forgot to say goodbye.
"Talk! Tell me what you know! Tell me something!"
I kneel to cry beside the chair. It remains quiet.
The cherry tree is to be cut today. The same cherry tree my grandfather sat beside, smoking his cigars, talking with young girls, spending his time, passing his years. Its trunk is full of memories that would fly with the wind, away from us, away from me. I am afraid of losing the one memory that I hold most precious. I have hidden it in the trunk for my grandfather. I may not be able to catch it in time.
My childhood died with the cherry tree.