Pomegranate Tree

          The sun of the hottest summer I can remember shone bright. I was quite young at the time, yet I still found the intense heat irregular for where I lived. My home was near numerous fields and orchards, which gave me and my parents access to fresh and cheap produce whenever we needed them.

          I found joy wandering through orchards. The bright colours and smells were always a delight.

          My friends and I would often run through the fields playing different games like tag and hide-and-seek. The farmers always shooed us away, fearful we would injure ourselves on their property or damage their crops. But no matter how often we were told off, we always returned the next day, to race through the trees and get burnt in the summer sun.

          One of these farmers was an older man, Mr. Gasper. Thin, wiry hair framed his chiselled face and tired eyes. He had a large scar running down his left cheek. While relatively thin, he was tall and muscular for his age. The older boys told stories about him and his scar, trying to scare the younger children, and they constantly dared each other to run through his peach orchard. The bravest boy rushed through and sprinted back when Mr. Gasper bellowed from his porch. One time, I took the dare and went on his property, and while he scared me away as well, I saw a place I wanted to visit again.

          On the edge of his orchard, a hill peeked over the trees. Standing at the crest of the hill was a single pomegranate tree, the only one growing in the area. I was drawn to this spot and its natural beauty. So, even when Mr. Gasper would scare me off his property, I was always the first to volunteer to sneak back on just so I could get closer to that tree again.

          One time, after the children were finished playing, I went back to his orchards. By that point, night had fallen, on a summer day like so many I’ve seen. I figured that he was either asleep or wouldn’t be able to catch me in the darkness. I wandered through the trees, almost running into a few branches, making my way back to the hill. I clambered up to the top of the hill and lay beneath the tree, staring at the sky. When the clouds parted, the picture before me took my breath away. To this day I swear I could see supernovas.

          I felt small beneath the pomegranate tree.

          As I stared up, it occurred to me that I had not had one of those red fruits before. Curiosity got the best of me and I stood. Looking about the options, I found a good-

sized piece within reach and pulled on it. I didn’t know how to properly pick fruit from trees at this point, so I yanked and tugged hoping it would come free. With one strong tug I slipped and fell, and with a resounding crack the fruit and the small branch it was attached to broke free.

          I heard footsteps behind me and I turned to see Mr. Gasper there with a flashlight. He loomed over me and looked at the broken branch in my hand. His face grew red and contorted with rage.

          “YOU FUCKING BRAT! GET OFF MY DAMN PROPERTY BEFORE I GET NASTY!”

          I’m sure all the other children could hear him from their beds. I didn’t know I could run that fast. I half sprinted, half fell down the hill and off into the night. I didn’t look back until I had crossed the road to my home. I could still see his flashlight shining from atop the hill, and I still had the pomegranate clutched in my small hands.

          I quickly went to bed after that, vowing to never enter back into Mr. Gasper’s yard again. The fruit sat next to me that night, and I cut into it for breakfast the next morning. Red juice and seeds spilled onto the table. It was sticky and dyed everything it touched, yet it was the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.

 

—

 

          I returned home last week from university. I find myself looking across the road at Mr. Gasper’s orchard. He has kept it well, each tree bountiful and lush. I remember all the places I used to roam, and all the mischief I caused. I have not seen the other children in quite some time. They were probably off crafting their own paths in life as I have been. Yet, I find myself thinking back to how small I used to be, and how much taller I am now. I’m told my face is gaunter than it used to be, and I am thinner now. My hair is always tousled, and I’m paler than I was on those summer days. The thought that I had changed and nothing else eats at me. I want to go see the tree again—one last vestige of my youth to cling to.

          I cross the road as the sun starts to set, my hands in my pockets. The summer haze thickens the air around me, and paints the sky colours I had not seen in a while. The smell of peaches baking in the heat fills my nose as I walk through the orchard, ducking the branches. The fields seem empty, leaving me the sole inhabitant of the trees that I can see. While I once would have found it eerie, the solitude feels comforting.

          I approach the hill. It looked larger in my memory, a vast mountain to trek. Now it is merely a mound barely rising over the trees. The grass seemed to have been recently mowed. I could smell it, along with the baking peaches. At the top, I look at the tree with the sun piercing through its leaves. The branch I broke off all those years ago is still missing. I sit in the grass heedless of the stains it will leave on my clothes, and stare out at the horizon’s colours.

          “Ahem,”

          I turn my head and see Mr. Gasper standing behind me. His eyes have sunken in more and he’s grown a belly. He dresses about the same as I remember, but he’s shorter than I can recall. I expect him to be angry at my presence, but he just seems… tired.

          “Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to trespass. I’ll be on my way.” I begin rising to my feet.

          “No, no. It’s alright.” He walks over and sits near me, a metre or two separating us.

          “Nothing wrong with exploring. You’ve gotten taller since you were a kid,” he adds.

          “I’m surprised you remember me. I didn’t think I left that much of an impression,” I chuckle. He waves his hand at the snapped stub where I took the fruit from.

          “Hard to forget you, kid. Also far from my proudest moment. It was hardly anything to get worked up over, all you did was take a fruit. I had more than enough to share.”

          His eyes flick up to the sky. I pull pieces of grass from my palms.

          “This was my daughter’s favourite spot when she was young. She’d always be up on this hill playing around with her friends. I planted the tree here when she said she wanted to try growing pomegranates. She would always take care of it, pick the fruit, water it, and trim it when needed. It was her personal piece of the orchard.”

          “Would I have known your daughter?”

          “Nah, she was before your time. Gone before you started poking your nose around.”

          “Gone? Did she pass away?”

          “She’s living across the country, husband and two kids of her own. A good job that pays much better than mine. Nice house in a nice town. Living the dream. She comes back to visit every few months, but it’s never the same.”

          A pomegranate dangles over his head. He’s barely able to reach it to twist it off the branch. He examines its surface.

          “Guess I just miss her, is all. The way she was when she was young. The way I was when I was a younger man.” He pulls a pruning knife from his belt and cuts the fruit into thirds. He sets two slices on the grass beside him and hands the third to me. It tastes just as sweet as I remember it.

          “There’s still a long path ahead of you. What have you been up to in the last couple years?” He asks.

          “Off at some fancy university. Trying to learn enough to move up, get a good job. Suppose what everyone is trying to do.”

          “You got a lot of life left in you, kid. Make sure to use it.” He bites into the rest of the pomegranate and looks off at the sun setting. “Don’t forget the place you come from either. That’ll take you farther than any degree will.”

          Mr. Gasper and I remain silent, watching the clouds swirl sunlight above, waiting for the supernovas to come back out once more.