Snap & Strum

He once dated a girl with a pink ukulele. She showed him a tattoo of a dream catcher - it was right between her shoulders and he decided then and there she was his goddess. He'd only been a vegan for all of two months, but she didn't need to know his whole truth - not yet. Besides, when he left her at a bakery as she tried to decide on sourdough or ancient grain, he was already back on the beef burgers and in love with a warrior in dungarees. Sydney would sing about the photos she found as she played her pink ukulele - the two of them, open mouths of ecstasy, naked, the man she knew, the woman she didn't, dungarees hanging from her bed post, kebab wrapper by her bedside lamp.

Every time Sydney went to sleep now she'd swear she could still smell the stench of that lamb that had slowly been turned on a spit. It didn't matter. In fact nothing seemed to matter to Sydney anymore. It was as if she had been carved up and half eaten; left on the bedside table as the action happened just beside her - before her very eyes. She bought any kind of bread now. Not sliced white obviously, but her days of dreamily choosing what it was she wanted had come to an abrupt end. She had began thinking about having her tattoo removed. He on the other hand often thought of that dream catcher and what the girl whose back it lived on was doing now.

As the buzzing stopped and Sydney craned her head around to view the space between her shoulders in the mirror she saw a single tear fall down her cheek and she vowed there and then that would be the last one she would shed for broken dreams. She would catch them for herself now. She flung the doors of the tattoo parlor wide open, she stuck two fingers up at the artisanal bakery where the crumbs of the crusty end of her relationship still somehow lingered, and she would have marched all the way up to Trigol Farm with that fiery spirit.

She would've kicked down the door to that little cottage before setting the cows free - or sheep - or whatever animals they had enslaved up there - and then, as she saw their panicked faces emerge she'd simply smile and drop the pear tree at his feet. The pot would smash. The soil would be on the carpet. And she'd say just this: "This is all you baby. This is all so you." He'd know what she meant. She'd maybe wink at her, maybe let her know she was falling out of her dungarees and then walk out into the sunshine and out of this town for good. The last thing he'd have seen as she walked away was her new tattoo. If only she'd done that. If only that series of events had come true. Who knew that merely moments after she was past the bakery, her two fingers still in a 'V' of defiance in the air, that little Connor Gribbel would be on his BMX.

Connor Gribbel - predicted grades - D in Maths, D in English, D in Science, D in Music, D in History, D in Geography, might scrape a C in Art, but due to attendance issues, a D again in Sports. His Mum thought he could improve upon those grades. Most Mum's do, but most Mum's don't bury their child before the exams.

As Connor Gribbel's handsfree BMX trick took him onto the other side of the road he found himself in the unbreakable grip of fate. There is, it so happens, a multitude of universes and interestingly enough there is one in which a Dr. Connor Gribbel explains the philosophy of fate to a rapt audience in an auditorium of twenty somethings, but that is of course the universe in which Connor's father was made redundant and so no BMX was wrapped for Christmas. His Mum was right though. In all other universes that Connor exists it must be said that his predicted grades underestimated Connor's abilities to achieve more than was expected of him. As the truck made contact, and his boyish bones shattered from within, any and all expectations in his little life vanished. His freefall was blissful. His landing upon the pavement on which Sydney was marching however was not. The potted pear tree under Sydney's arm trembled, but she did not drop it; the soil stayed safely inside the terracotta as the boy's blood spilled out across the concrete.

It was a surprise to see Sydney at the funeral. It was a surprise for her to see him too. As the small coffin was lowered into the ground to a cover of 'I believe I can fly' played on her pink Ukulele she almost forgot the lyrics to the second verse. The last time he had heard her sing was at Yoga and Yodels on meatless Mondays, back when he was vegan, back when they were together, back way back when. She had no idea why he was there and had no intention of asking him at the wake, but Tommy being Tommy, he couldn't resist his urge to warm himself in the glow of an old flame. With two tequilas in hand he cornered her at the buffet table. Her plate was empty. There was nothing here she could eat. He offered her one of the tequilas and after a sideways glance, a roll of the eyes, and two more tequilas later they were talking.

She deduced that Tommy had grown tired of his life on the farm. Getting down and dirty amongst the hay bales was swapped out for the forbidden love of a married woman. He wanted a mother's touch. Connor's mother. So whilst Connor's Dad continued to work abroad Tommy stepped in to mow the family lawn, fix flat tyres on a BMX, and sleep in a marital bed. He'd grown fond of Connor so he attended the funeral, but at a respectable distance from the grief of the mother he referred affectionately to as 'Mama Nymph'. Sydney watched the woman sob into the shoulder of her recently returned husband. Tommy was watching them too. He'd have to find somewhere new to sleep. Or somewhere old. He turned back to Sydney.

"So you were there?" he asked. "You were with him. Like at the end?"

She nodded and then pulled a pear from her coat pocket.

***

She'd cradled his split skull like a leaking vase of flowers; with so much care, but with a desperation in her eyes that said: "Can somebody please find me another vase?!" Alas, there is no replacement for the container of a brain and so the boy died and she went back to her flat to wash the blood from her hands. Despite desperately strumming her ukulele she could not drown out the sound of the sirens that still incessantly wailed inside her head. She snapped the E string. She went to the kitchen, pulled out a detox smoothie, topped it up with vodka, and stood there looking at the boxes. Her life packed up in cardboard; as if everything that made her Sydney was hidden away. All that remained was a ukulele with a missing string and a potted pear tree that Tommy had bought for her. He said it: "symbolised the growing love between them."

In an instant the smoothie was gone and as the vodka coursed through her veins she snatched up the ukulele. She raised it high up above her head like an axe, her eyes void of emotion, channeling now some ancestral executioner from another time. The pear tree looked up bewildered as it became aware that in a matter of moments it was to fulfil its destiny as collateral damage. The breeze from the window allowed the leaves to tremble. She hesitated. Her heart skipped a beat. Her eyes became wide in amazement. The ukulele fell gently to rest by her side. She bent down. With utter disbelief she carefully took hold of the fruit. There, from a fragile branch, one single pear did hang. She laughed with tears.

"How?" she asked aloud. She had never expected, never thought possible, that a tree this young would bear fruit so soon. Yet what she found stranger was not noticing this miracle earlier - she'd not seen it grow, not observed the change. Surely she would have detected the presence of a new life upon this tiny tree. The truth was that she hadn't and she cursed herself for wanting to smash it at her ex's feet. She cursed herself again for almost clobbering it with her ukulele. She traced a finger down the side of the pear.

"Hello little one." she whispered.

"Hello Sydney." the pear replied.

She threw herself backwards and tumbled into a box behind. Beads of every color spilled out across the wooden floorboards like tiny marbles - as if each bead housed a moment in time. Memories of making bracelets for her market stall tumbled into her head. The two of them giggling; Tommy counting the cash, her arms around his waist.

"Sydney?" the pear said again. She shook her head. Her vision blurred. "It's okay Sydney. Just take a moment. I'm only a pear." the pear said.

She was struggling to breathe, but she lifted her head, and on all fours, forced herself towards the plant. The pear spoke again:

"Really. It's alright. Just take a breath."

Sydney's mouth hung ajar. She stared hard at the pear.

"Why don't you pour yourself another drink Sydney."

"Yes. Sure." she mumbled. She clambered to her feet and in a daze went back to the kitchen. She returned with the bottle of vodka, sat down in front of the potted tree with her legs crossed, and took a big swig from the bottle. It burned. Not as much, however, as the words the pear spoke. It was if the voice came directly from inside her head; directly to her heart.

"Now then." the pear said slowly. "Who was Sydney before she met Tommy?"

Later that evening she unpacked her boxes. It was the pear’s idea. She would not be leaving town today after all. She would say goodbye and make peace with the dead. She restrung a new E string on her Ukulele.

***

She sat the pear on the table beside the empty glasses of tequila. Then she placed a hand on Tommy's shoulder, smiled, said goodbye, and walked away. Years later he would still wonder what that girl with the dream catcher on her back was doing now, but little did he know, she no longer had that tattoo printed on her skin, and when she occasionally thought of him, all that she remembered was the pear tree he'd once bought her. Now and then they would both think of little Connor Gribbel. His memory living on despite expectations and, in another universe where Connor Gribbel was alive, that Connor would stroke the gray bristles on his chin and say, as he poured himself another glass of scotch, that he wished his father had known his mother was a 'cheating whore'. Connor's mother and father stayed together in almost every universe they met and they were almost always unhappily married. It seemed to Sydney now that even when love doesn't grow like it's meant to there's always a chance it will still bear fruit - if you're willing to find it, or in Sydney's case - listen. She gently opened the doors to the sunshine and left the wake. Tommy almost called out after her, but she wouldn't have heard him anyway. In her ripe and ready imagination she was strumming her ukulele and singing. Not about the photos she once found, but the infinite possibilities of all other universes. Tommy looked down at the pear she’d left on the table. The pear looked back at him in silence.