Diane: Spring 1980
The cherry tree was blighted. Its leaves curled and black. Strange resin oozed from its trunk; a cut that never healed. Small grubs and creatures crawled around its gnarled bark. That area of the garden was dark and unpleasant to visit. The tree had never borne wholesome fruit or attractive flowers.
I hated the tree right from the outset. I complained to my husband, Richard, but he continued digging and planted it anyway, whistling a Nat King Cole tune as he did so. I hated whistling and didn’t care much for Nat King Cole either. I spent that afternoon sulking. I spent a lot of afternoons sulking. After planting the tree, Richard left. He jumped in the car, started up the engine and drove off - I didn't know what time to expect him back, I never did.
Twenty-six years on and the tree was still there. Standing solid, its bold outline scratching at the sky, blighted leaves lying on the ground infecting everything they touched. Then, in the springtime, it burst into blossom, spreading pink petal showers around the garden, leaving a trail of small confetti drifts in odd corners. It seemed a poetic act given I had buried Richard in the January.
I felt a tinge of pleasure as I stood at the kitchen window and watched the tree surgeon start up the chainsaw. With an air of nonchalance, he carved and cut. Shavings flew on the air as the cutting chain whined and bit. Branch after branch fell to the ground. As each one fell, I felt lighter, giddy almost.
When they hauled all the logs and debris away, I went down to the bottom of the garden to inspect the work. The stump looked stark. I bent down to look closer at the rings and suddenly, spontaneously, spat on its heart.
