The Boy Under the Pear Tree

I remember the day we first met. It was early in the morning, and while the birds began their joyous greeting to the sun, the rest of the world was just beginning to stir. I was with my mother and you with your father. There were other kids in the park, but you were sitting alone, reading a book under a pear tree, the pear tree. Everyone knew that pear tree, it was the only one in the park. Year after year, it would produce the most delicious fruit you would ever taste. My mother sat down next to your father, who was sitting on a nearby bench. I took a cue from my mother and decided that you needed a friend. You did not look lonely so much as inwardly thoughtful. If that even makes sense. We were eight years old, and I knew you were my best friend. I had heard of love but certainly did not understand it, but that day, I was certain that I loved you. It was not hard to talk to you or to listen. From that day forward we were almost inseparable, I am not sure our parents understood, but we did not need them to understand. Every morning and every afternoon we would meet under the pear tree, parents in tow, and that is how time passed for us.

I remember when we were eleven years old and we decided we were going to run away together, get married and join the circus. Never mind that we were underage and that we had no skills worthy of the few circuses left in this country. By the age of thirteen, we thought we had earned a bit of freedom, but our parents would always insist on walking with us, sometimes we could convince them to walk far enough behind us that most of our conversation remained between just us. We finally had to sit down with my mother and your father and explain our utter and complete mortification about the escort.

I remember sneaking out of my house for the first time when I turned fifteen, we met under the pear tree and got spectacularly drunk, it was an exhilarating night of firsts for us. We said we loved each other and promised that we would always be there for one another. We meant it, but the world does not care about such things. The ambitious ways of youth.... we dream, we hope, and life just happens. Sometimes, we must bend to the will of nature and blow where the wind takes us.

I remember when I was sixteen years old, and the world as I knew it ended. At first, I was quite tickled, it seemed that I had arrived at the pear tree before you. It would have been the first time in eight years of love and friendship. As I stepped closer, the smile fell from my face. In your stead, you left a note addressed to me. I still have that note, but I would remember it even if I had thrown it away all those years ago.

"I will see you here again, someday."

You did not sign it. I did not mind for there was no need.

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I walk to that spot every morning, year after year. Every day I wonder where you are. Where did you go? Why did you leave? Are you well? It is incredibly difficult and at times I feel I could go mad. Not knowing is the hardest thing of all. My father moved out a few months after you left. The only two men I ever loved, and I had lost both. I still got to see my father a few times a month, but you know what I mean. After a while, he finally told me the truth. I was not surprised. You and I had discussed it before, we suspected it, but we were too afraid to look further into it. I often wonder if the truth came out in your house as well, but the answer is obvious.

It has been twenty years since the day I read your note. And every morning I grab a book, pour my coffee to go, and make the journey to the pear tree. And there I wait. The tree still stands proud, and will even produce a few pears, but only for people the tree likes. Luckily, I am the pear tree’s favorite person in the entire world. I will be sad to say goodbye.

Where are you, my love? You must have forgotten about me by now. Or do you blame me for what happened between our parents? I hope not. I am sorry. I am sorry because I can no longer do this. I have made my decision and I must follow through on that decision. And so, this will be the last time, my love. This will be the last morning I journey out in hope of finding what I lost. Hope is a tricky thing to kill, but if I continue down this path, I am afraid I will lose all hope. I could not bear that. I hope that you are waiting for me this time, under the pear tree, like you did all those years ago. If you are not, then I leave you this note, in hope that it somehow finds you. For I never could. I will always love you. I will always remember that boy under the pear tree.

End