The Cherry Picker

Innocent blossom
yields memory's fruit
touch an enigma.

He strode through the cobbled paths of the garden past me and made a beeline for the dark leafy trees. He stopped beneath the drooping branches and raised his massive arms as if embracing them like long lost brothers. From behind, with his faded olive green coat and pants, he looked like a mottled tree trunk. I probably wouldn't have paid much attention to him if I hadn't heard what I did. The sound of twigs snapping roused me from my apathy. I watched in shock as leaves fell to the ground in clumps. I probably wouldn't have bothered him but then I saw him raise his hands to his face. And then I heard him spit and watched as something skittered on the ground before him.

Cautiously, I approached him.

"What are you doing?" I asked from a distance.

He turned to face me; and I now I could see how his jacket rode up on his arms, halfway between his wrist and his elbow. How his pants draped to make olive elephant legs. His once black boots were scuffed and grey. His ill-fitting coat befitted a man from unfit times. A red clown-like smear plastered his mouth and chin.

"I'm picking cherries," he said as he grinned and pointed to the dark foliage.

I tried to see the fruit, but could find none. I took a step forward closer to him as I tried to get a better look. Again, I found nothing. I shook my head in frustration. The man turned from me and again raised his arms to the tree. As he pulled on the branches, leaves fluttered to the ground. Before I could step back again, he turned to me and pulled me toward him. I stood frozen on the spot, too shocked to move away. I looked into his eyes and he looked at me with eyes that were innocent and wise. His eyes were wrinkled with memories of sadness and gleamed with memories of joy. He gently forced my hands open, and pushed his treasure into them. He cupped my hands in his.

"Here you go," he said. He released my hand and looked through the park. He took a step away from me. I stood there helpless as I watched him stride over the sun-bleached grass. His steps ate the ground beneath him. He was gone.

I opened my hands. They were filled with promise in varying shades of red. Bright, shiny cherries. Orangey-red cherries. Deep red cherries. I popped one ripe berry in my mouth. Its juice unlocked a flood of memories and suddenly I remembered why I knew this place.

Every year, our family would gather under these flowering trees for our family Mother's Day picnic. Every year, that was, until Mom died. And then it was too painful to come back. We all stayed away.
A torrent of tears filled my eyes. I knelt on the ground afraid that I would fall. My heart welled up inside me. I remembered. I remembered every joy-filled morning, even the rainy days among these trees with my brothers and sisters. We dangled from our knees amid the blushing blooms, shaking the blossoms down on Mom.

"For luck," we sang.
As I ate the cherries in my hands, old memories were finally freed. For the first time since my mother died, the pain of her passing left me, and all I was left with were memories. Both sour and sweet, their flavours mingled in my mouth and mind. I cried for their release. I wept in relief. I remembered.
Drying my eyes, I looked now to the branches and saw what had been hidden to me. Cherries peeked from under the dark foliage. They were everywhere. Some hung like a promise, waiting to be brought to fruition. Others were ripe and ready to pick. They beckoned me to taste, to remember.

I stood, feeling the firmness of the earth beneath me. I lifted my arms, embracing the branches. Gently, I picked a cherry from the tree. I raised the berry to my lips and let its juices run down my throat. I remember. I smiled. A single tear ran down my face. I will never forget.