Cherry Tree

Photo from Sydney Toby

My grandparents’ backyard seemed so huge when I was a kid. Lily-of-the-valley grew along the fence, and they lived in an older part of Oakville, so the trees in their backyard were tall and sturdy enough to climb. In the middle of the yard was a cherry tree that my grandpa used to pick from every summer, in his brown plaid hat. It looked like a beret with a brim. My grandma would then make tarts and an occasional jam, or we’d just put the cherries in a bowl and eat them on the grass. I don’t remember if the tree died before or after my grandpa did, but cherries don’t grow on it anymore. 

Even now, as I’m sitting here writing this, there’s a willow tree in front of me with an ugly red dot on its trunk. The one behind it is branded with the same spray paint. My best friend Katie has a favourite willow tree, in Lakeside Park. She loves it more than she’s ever loved any man – seriously, she hugs it every time we’re down by the water. Last summer when we came back from school, Katie went for a visit and discovered it was marked with that stupid red dot. When they chop it down, I know she’ll cry. 

It’s funny, how grief clings to the little things: cherries, tiny white flowers, a plaid hat, or a tree that was someone’s favourite. And they used to feel so big but when they’re all you're left with, they’re suddenly microscopic. When even they disappear, you’re left with nothing at all. Their absence feels so malicious, like the universe is trying to eat everything you care about and lick the plate for crumbs. I’ve been alone a lot this month; both my parents work, some of my friends decided to stay at school, and the ones who didn’t work weird hours at hospitals or double shifts at restaurants. I feel their absence is, I guess, what I’m trying to say. And I feel the absence of my grandpa, and his cherry tree, even though it stopped growing more than five years ago and I laughed during his funeral, which sounds worse than it is. 

This kind of nostalgic grief is problematic for me because I start to miss things that I shouldn’t, like COVID summer or that short-lived fling from last May. Reminisce too hard, and you’ll drown in it again, or you begin grieving things that aren’t even gone yet. My eyes keep going back to the red-dotted willows, and it sucks how this little mark has made the whole tree feel sad and already gone. It seems like growing up is just adding more and more to the ever-expanding list of things you miss and being both comforted and pained by their memory. So bleak. 

Everyone talks about how the beauty of life lies in its fleeting, which may be true, but I don’t think that applies to the things you love. What was wonderful to me about my grandpa’s cherry tree wasn’t its mortality, it was my grandpa. That said, even though the tree doesn’t bear fruit anymore, I can still find solace sitting under it and remembering when it did. I’m aware that this concept is far from revolutionary and seems obvious. I guess another thing I can find comfort in is writing down even the most obvious of feelings. I just really miss that cherry tree.