Cherry Tree

By Sylvia Tong

I can still remember clearly, the cherry tree beside my house.

It’s sunken grooves, the patterns and veins it carved into itself

The baby pink blossoms that would bloom upon spring 

That I’d stare at in awe of their beauty, entranced by the smells of spring

I’m reminded of the tart taste of the fruit it bud

The sharp, sweet flavor that burst out in my mouth

Staining my lips, my tongue, my teeth an unreplicatable red.

It still sits besides that house, though it is not mine.

The tree is not mine, I do not see it bloom or sprout fruit.

I see photographs of the old tree, it is overgrown, overrunning that house

I sometimes wonder if the tree gets lonely, or if it misses me,

Cradled between its sturdy, broad branches.

I wonder if the cherry tree resents me leaving, what would it say to me if it could?

Would it cry and weep for my return? Would it curse and shout at me for leaving?

There is one thing I am sure of, though.

The tree loved me once as I loved it.

I just pray to know if it would still love me, love the person I am today.

Because deep down, I still love it. I can remember the details almost eidetically. 

From the grooves, the blossoms, the smells, the taste, to the safety of the branches I wedged myself between.