It was a tree that stood at the heart of the garden, providing fruit and shade and a happy place to climb. But even the hardiest of fruit trees don’t last forever, leaving only memories for the family tree to share
It’s a quiet Sunday morning, but not for long. The calmness will soon be shred, and the peaceful sky intruded upon. Something profound is happening in the garden. Something that I have admired for a long time will soon be gone.
In a short while my brother-in-law will arrive with his men, bearing chainsaws, and cut down the plum tree that has stood in the centre of our small back garden for decades. This tree, which has meant so much to me and my family. Our family tree. And in a way, the tree of me.
Lulled into a false spring in early winter, as warmth enveloped it, it blossomed at the wrong time, thrown by the mixed-up seasons. Snowflake flowers littered the lawn.
As summer approached, I watched as the tree hardened and become brittle. I saw no pale green shoots appearing. Instead, like so many cracks in the sky, the branches were unadorned, frozen still.
It’s the best wood, this stuff, my brother-in-law says. I’ll stack it nicely for you. Indeed, as I have pruned some of its bigger branches over the years, I’ve found its red-hard knotted density a good home in my winter fires. Now, there will be a whole pile against the back wall.
Fruit it gave, religiously, small rubies that the birds loved. My then-wife baked plum tarts, excellent upside-down creations which became a signature dish. She could bake them in her sleep!
We also put several bird feeding stations in its branches, my daughter and I, and watched as the tree thrummed with cheeps and chatter and flashing wings. Rival birds scooched each other away, seeking mates or a meal. Often there was a flurry of feathers.
My son liked to climb in it as a young lad. And then my next son too. We played catch around its base. It featured in obstacle courses and marked the edge of games.
But no children are here today. My family are split, just like the crack I found in the trunk of the plum tree a couple of weeks ago, when I decided to chop it down, and free the space, in my mind as much as anywhere else.
What a tree you have been, dear Plum. You stood for our family. You stood up for us and supported our growth. But, finding myself alone in this rambling, overstuffed home, you must make way now. Things have changed.
Lovingly tended to by former inhabitants who employed a tree surgeon to resuscitate you when they moved in here 30 years ago, you have seen families come and go, and go their separate ways.
They also thought it would die, in their time, and like me, are separated now. I called the former owner to let him know of your passing. It was inevitable, he said. Fruit trees don’t last forever. Things change. Why not plant another one, he suggested.
The wood will dry out, and in time, find itself in the shape of smoke, curling into the sky. Ash will be swept away and put on the compost heap it shaded. The silhouettes it spanned across the grass we sat on will see their last, in an hour or so.
I want to photograph it, to capture something of it before it goes. Even in its desolate form. But it feels to me that the tree is naked, and it would be a violation.
You have meant too much to me, old friend. The pride that always swelled inside me when I gazed at you now needs to find another home. I have captured you in springtime bloom, when your entire crown has been a galaxy of white.
I have hung my laundry from lines tightened on your limbs. I have eaten meals with those I love beneath your leaves. You go, and part of me goes with you, up in smoke. Goodbye old friend. Thank you. I will miss your shape, but find new shapes in the places you vacate.
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