The Blanchflower

They pick at me.

All day long they pick at me, I stand hollow and spent from bearing for them but they have yet to thank me. I fall apart for their pleasure and satiation. I grow and they pick. Over the years I watched as they created from my parts. I watched as they rejoiced when I became whole, I watched as I accompanied them in their heartache and their peace. I watched as they leant on me for sanction, as they climbed to the depths of me for more. I watched and I watched and it has never been a problem until today.

They have ruined me, I am left barely a shadow of what I once was. I am chipping away, the colour that runs through me now appears bleak, I am torn and quivering over the once constant ground. They are taking my foundation. Someone stop them!

They plucked and they plucked and now they are finished, I should've known as soon as they sat my replacement across from me. It reflected everything I wasn't anymore: youth, stamina, vibrancy and hope. It snuck up on me picking at my insecurities, like an eagle dissecting its prey. Pinpointing every flaw, it drew out my mistakes as if I was standing in the courts of law.

My time is up, I can accept that. The brutal goodbye they are sending me, that I can not. Though I am aware that I am not one of them, they made me feel otherwise once upon a time.

Maggie sat at my feet, soaking in the sun restoring life into the both of us, her nose buried in yet another book. We sit in silence, relishing in each other's company. The sound of children's laughter echoing from our neighbour's backyard, a lawnmower perfecting a set of grass heard from afar. The ice cream truck making its presence known to us by playing its famed melody to us, the perfect sunny day. I grace them with my best work for dessert, through the window I see their smiles as they revel in the delicious pie. Content radiates from them unto me. Most days were like this, with the exception of the weather through the years.

Decades have passed, we mourned and celebrated life together. I've seen the tale of the Blanchflower household unfold, it has been beautiful in every possible meaning. The whole family adopted me, I stood as a symbol for the bond between us. A symbol of always and forever, except our forever wasn't ours anymore, it was now theirs.

They have set my execution date. I have no lawyer and the people who are supposed to aid me are the ones giving the orders to the executioner. So who do I call for help?

I heard them talking, they said I was sick so I must go. I thought they meant to a hospital because that's where they take everyone when they feel under the weather. Little Ruby got chickenpox a month ago, they took him to the hospital and he's better. Aunt Betty has diabetes, she goes to the hospital to get better, Mum got the flu last year, same hospital. They all got better in the end, except grandpa Joe and great-grandma Elizabeth who had cancer but I don't think I have cancer. They said something about European rust, but I feel fine, really, I'm great. I have never been to Europe, how can Europe make me ill?

Nevertheless, I must go. The assassin arrives at 4:00 pm, I wait anxiously for my demise. Fury and hurt swirl within me, are they even going to say goodbye?

I look at the growing image of me on my right, must I bestow wisdom unto it before I go or leave it to figure it out all on its own as I did? I agree on the latter, mainly out of pettiness. Also because the feeling of satisfaction is surreal once you figure out what your purpose to them is on your own. The vibrant, meticulous green leaves on the stem of the adolescent pear tree are barely visible, I look at the bright orange spots on my own imperfection and it sinks in. I truly am sick.

I yearn for their presence one last time, for their warmth in this damp morning. For little Ruby to run circles around me and Maggie to sob over a sad ending in a book only for me to catch and absorb every tear. And maybe one last hoorah with the whole family!

It is 4:00 pm, the executioner has arrived.

This is it, I have succumbed to my end.

Maggie appears out the glass door with glossy eyes, little ruby by her side with trembling lips. Mum and dad talking to the strange man with a sombre expression. Solace embraced me, they still care.

Déjà vu hits me as a picture of me supplanting one that parallels my current likeness materializes in my mind. This has come to pass previously, I was once the youthful replacement. An unknown feeling washes over me, uncertainty, guilt and luck merged unto one. Those who came before me have experienced this and I am suddenly grateful to have been, even for a little while.

The Blanchflowers stand side by side at the crystal door, watching the strange man with his weapon. I do my best to portray a sad smile but it doesn't show. I replay the fond memories to suppress the visceral sound of the chainsaw. I tell myself that I am the best thing to have happened to this family just to put myself at ease.

I know they won't mourn me as they did for Grandpa Joe and Great-grandma Elizabeth but the image of them doing so tickles me for a brief period, it has been quite an adventure and I am willing to let go but with all the recollections firmly intact. I was family.

I was a Blanchflower pear tree!