"Be careful you
don't step on the pears,"
she warned as I weaved
my way across her little
yard, past the pear tree,
somehow wiser than fruit
trees are supposed to be,
and smug, even as if it
had heard those words many
thousands of times before. "My
mother," she said, as I climbed
blue backporch steps to
her kitchen, "used to make me
pick up pears when I was
a little girl, before I could
do the fun things I wanted
to do, and I hated it." And
looking back through the glass
door as it closed behind me,
in the porchlight the pear
tree looked more smug
than ever. "And now," she said,
as I perused the photos
on her fridge of mother and
son, "I make him do it just
like she did to me. Yes, I
make him pick up pears before
soccer, or else he can't
play. And you know, I feel so
bad about it, because I know
he hates it like I did." And
she smiled a worried frown
as if she had just sent her
son off to be a migrant farm
worker in the San Joaquin Valley.
"And you know when he was
little, he used to love to pick
up pears with me. And now..." she
trailed off. "Hey," I replied, "that's
how we learn responsibility." And
then I said, "But if it's been
such a thorn in your family's
side for so long, did you ever
consider cutting it down?"
"Yes, but I just couldn't do it," and
she bit her lower lip thoughtfully.
While watching, I imagined doing
the same. "Well, it's getting
late. I'd better leave you
to get your rest," I said, and
took one last plunge in her
ocean eyes before retracing
my path down blue steps and into
the yard. "Be careful of the pears,"
she cautioned, as I stepped on
one in the dark. And the pear
tree smirked and giggled so hard,
its leaves rustled in the
perfectly still night air.