Two Avocado Trees

When I was ten I planted an avocado pit. I planted it in exposed soil - squared patches, where our playset used to stand. It had two swings and a slide and was made of light wood. The wood looked too new to me - the lumber aisle at Home Depot. Swinging back and forth I’d think lazily that it ought to be painted, or at least have its edges buffed. But I did not know if they did that and still do not.

I told my mom what I was going to do. She had cut the avocado after all. Surely she washed and patted it dry. I then went out of the kitchen and down the porch steps. I selected the left side of our yard, secluded in shade. It was bright noon, but the soil felt cool, squishing between and beneath my toes. At first, I wanted to be done quickly, thinking of the unknown crawlers I squatted amongst. But then I watched them. And the fear of bugs contended with a tenderness. I’d watch speckles of red and rolly-pollies mount pebbles and cling sideways to the stems of grass blades. They'd hold on through the changing gusts and I found them quite strong. The worms did not occupy that pre-exposed dirt, which I did not mind.

So in that patch I dug a hole. I dug it with bare hands and the earth left wedges between my fingernails. It was mostly damp and in between scoops I rolled and popped fertilizer prills between my thumb and index finger. I must have set the pit to the side, but not for long. For soon it was plopped into that cool hollow. It disappeared first in crumbles then in compressions of dirt. And then it was finished.

When I was done, and in moments throughout, I pictured it in its fullness - a kingly trunk, unapologetic in shade. I thought how special. These hands, though awkward in the handling of soil, they alone knew this trunk. These hands and the silence of that shaded portion of the yard.

I went back inside smiling as, on tip-toes, I scrubbed my nails and told my mom. In that listening I felt her endearment. She was gentle in my excitement, though she doubted it would sprout. That was ok because I doubted too.

Though not completely. I know this because we were moving that summer, and I felt envious of the renters who would have that tree.

We also built a fence. Not for them specifically, but for the house's salability. It was a grand fence to me - tall slabs of evening oak. It looked and smelled wet. Like it before lived next to a spring, soaking its environment through the roots. The yard was encapsulated in this and was transformed.

We had never had a fence and I was giddy in that newness. I'd run in and out of its side gate, clinking its shiny black latch, and peered lovingly at it as I strolled the front sidewalk. I remember longing for an event to happen there and a pulse of love for the summertime.

But, we were moving that summer and emptiness was growing. It grew, looking down from the upstairs banister. Looking out from our back porch. A sick joke that, though read to me before, seemed much worse said aloud.

And I did not like our empty lawn, now so lovely in that damp fence, smelling of living wood and shaded grass. And it was new but still ours, yet ours was slipping.

My childhood concluded in that empty lawn, though I didn't know it then.

I have been to that house since, though just driving by. I never see the backyard, although, the last time I drove by I didn’t even remember that avocado pit, my tree.

But I remembered it today. And I wish to know if it sprouted, and if so, how big its trunk is. It’s silly, I now know, picturing an avocado tree with a trunk, sturdy and broad in its shade. I now know they are small, fragile in body, with wide emerald leaves - a jungle plant, not my tree.

But it's strange, seeing pictures of avocado trees. For I think I’ve seen them before. On that street on Boxford Rd. At the house next door. I saw two with leaves like that. It grew prickly fruit, alien and sharing the likeness of pinecones. They were matte green and yellow. We'd pluck them with a harsh snap, and stopped after we felt regret. They'd fall anyway, better to wait for them then.

And I swear I saw an avocado, on those trees, mixed in their leafy thicket. It too had a thick stem though its body was shiny. It was dark green and light where it had not ripened. I don't remember picking it but that was because the stem was too stiff.

That’s very strange.

Why was there an avocado tree? Had another girl planted a pit? If she had, and the tree had grown to the size I had climbed, hugging like a monkey my limbs to its branches, patted by its lillypad leaves, did she know it would sprout? Maybe, like me, she knew and she did not know.

And, like me, did she ever want to go back, seeing if it grew?

I never saw her. She never came to pluck an avocado or feel the bulk of the branches.

But I don't think she forgot, who forgets planting an avocado pit?

I think she knew that if we did return, and we looked upon a mighty tree, it would not look so mighty at all. Its top leaf would brush the top of our temples and we would have to bend down, looking at the structure beneath. Knew that our time with the tree was in its planting, and the eyes that view it now should look different then our own.

Those eyes are patient. They watch the rolly-pollies, climbing the stems of grass blades, hoping they are comfortable.