The plum tree

To my dad, who never stopped fighting, and saving.

It was a chilly spring morning. The weather was playing around again, leaving little choice and few sunny sparkles.

The pain in Jacob’s leg was constant, dull and exasperating, taking his breath away at times and rushing his thoughts somewhere far from the cloudy morning and his newly-refurbished cottage, which was one of the main reasons to wake up every day. The house he had been dreaming of all his adult life, the house he had been saving up for since college, the house he would be leaving behind to his kids.

Where were the kids?

Jacob limped downstairs, trying to preserve his dignity and walk as straight as his faulty leg allowed. Lucy was sitting at the table rocking backwards and forwards, finishing her usual bowl of chocolate cereal. Her gaze was firmly placed on the screen in front of her, so there was no point in calling her name.

Mike was crawling on the floor in search of his favourite tractor. Claire was kneeling down, too, looking for the missing toy, but it was nowhere to be seen. Sometimes, kneeling down is just not good enough, or perhaps, it’s just too late.

‘Too late’, – the main thought on his mind these days. ‘Too late for a surgery, too late to travel, to play football with the kids, to swim in the ocean, to ramble through a forest, to love, to live.’

‘Stop being so dramatic’ – he reminded himself for the upteenth time, and approached his wife’s hair, smelled her floral scent, her cloudlike, sweet and light skin beneath. This kiss, this second, this lip-to- skin instance would last forever in his memory. If memories were strong enough, would they live beyond, would they transition to a new something, skipping the inevitable limbo of darkness and sadness?

After breakfast, after a large yellow bus swallowed his daughter up and carried her away for the best part of the day, he went outside, to the garden, to embrace the lush green ambience, its strong fresh clutching branches embracing him back. His garden was his escape harbour, his sweet bay taking him back to his childhood every time he stepped onto its messy grass.

Jacob had grown up in a small village, surrounded with woods on all sides, or at least, it seemed só. Wherever he went, he would always end up in the midst of those green giants, leaning their heads to him as if they were greeting him. Thinking back now, what if they were begging for help instead, spreading their branches into nowhere, shaking in the wind, longing for freedom? Who could blame them? Anyone living in that village craved the same, fleeing from the cage of no possibilities, lack of any development and growth. Anyone but him. He was just fine, enjoying his little world, his hapless unruly mates, permanently involved in some sort of adventures, which for some reason, inevitably went the wrong way. Going the wrong way didn’t mean failing in that case – it meant avoiding the wide path, full of stronger temptations and, as a result, more painful falls and losses.

It was a beautiful day, with its suffocating freshness, and the smell of something one wants to grasp só badly, and knows for sure it’ll never come back. The inevitable. Will it be his last spring? Will there be more flowery fields, resuscitating trees, more merrily chirping birds, more life? If only one could grab a Sharpie and write their name across the eternity, remain forever even after being gone, just to witness more springs and sunsets without this constantly nagging feeling that it would all be over some day.

There were still some plants that needed planting, só he decided to waste no time. Claire had just put Mike to sleep, and came out to help him. Or rather, he was helping her. His bad leg just wouldn’t let him be the breadwinner, the strongman, the Man any more. He was giving out, involuntarily crossing out all his achievements, successes, and goals. But not giving up entirely. Silently hollering for help. She had saved him once, dragging him through all the doctors who’d agree to see him. Those who didn’t, would end up doing it, because she wouldn’t accept refusals! Her husband would live, he would walk again, and he did. Once.

Here it was, his greenhouse, which resembled a grotto sometimes, was full of young trees, waiting to be planted. Somehow, it filled him with pure happiness, this unconditional life, which would eventually spin into a new beginning.

These things would make him happy. Even as a boy, he used to get excited about the simplest events, a cake his mum made for no reason, a new book, his baby brother’s first steps, cool waves on the beach where he’d spend his summers, the waves that could ingest him in a beat, but still made him feel free and craving for more. A true lodestone, the ocean. Claire’s voice snapped his attention back to the present. The present – he was forgetting who’d given him this present.

‘Which of these are we going to plant, love? How’s your leg today?’

The latter was doomed to be left unasnwered. No way he was going to discuss his pain, which has reached astronomic sizes and supersonic speed, the deadend, with his darling Tulip. She’d become Tulip when they went on their honeymoon to Amsterdam, and everywhere they went there seemed to be only these red wizards of flowers. Once, they found a glade full of them, and Claire lay down, drowning in the ocean of red, and her eyes matched her memories. Since then, she’s been Tulip.

He looked around – a pear tree, an apple one? Pristine and vibrant – gosh, they had big plans and lots of work to do.

But what caught his attention was somewhat different. Frail, with its small fragile leaves fading, its trunk pale and lifeless. What was it doing there?

‘Why don’t we plant this?’ , he suggested.

Claire looked at it, wide-eyed and indecisive. ‘A plum tree? Mrs Reynolds gave it to us because she opted for the raspberry bushes instead. Remember? If you ask me, no wonder. It’ll give us só much to do. I don’t know…You don’t even like plums’.

‘There’s something about this tree, some…some me in it’, he gently lifted it off the ground and took outside. Its leaves were shining in the sun, their faces smiling now and brushing the air.

Jacob carefully prepared the soil moving like a snail but refusing to rely on Claire. When he placed the hurt and pitiful roots in the ground, he felt a wave of heat rush through his body, a rush of hope, light, spirit. He was só engrossed in what he was doing that didn’t notice Claire filming him, sadly smiling at him from behind her phone. He looked at her, or rather, at the camera directly, and suddenly said, ‘I’ll live if it survives’. Claire looked at him in astonishment, but said nothing. They both knew his chances were slim, just like his poor green fellow’s.

He didn’t know what it was right away. His shin had been dark for ages, which he blamed on poor circulation. After all, his beloved mum had suffered and consequently died from exactly the same issue. However, when one day he simply couldn’t walk anymore because his toes turned black, Jacob was obliged to see the doctor. He discovered his diagnosis with a bit of a shock and bewilderment: diabetes type 2. Whatever it was, two of his toes were doomed, and amputated on the following day.

Now, seven years on, struggling every single day to make a few steps due to that horrible pain that left him breathless, he was not the Jacob he used to be. He was humble, loving, all-forgiving, and philosophical, his main concern being Claire and the kids. What would be of them if he’s gone, when he’s gone?

Short of two weeks ago, his doctor refused to operate on his leg. For the third time. His heart wouldn’t bear it, he said. Jacob could hardly believe his ears – he was being sent home with a rotten right leg! It was a dead end, hard, concrete wall in front of him, surrounding him on all sides, slowly closing up on him, when the only way out was to climb over it. This seemed improbable thanks to the gangrene which had ‘eaten’ his leg. Dead end it was, then. He seemed to be trapped in a haze of finality, as if listening to the static and not being able to tune in something less depressing and more lively.

Sometimes, as a child, he would be on his way home from school and he would be caught up in the rain. So, he would desperately sprint through the woods, crashing the wet moldy branches on the ground and all the tiny insects who were probably breathlessly running towards their homes. They would never reach them because a huge foot landed on them out of the blue, and stole their chances to escape the downpour and cope with it in the warmth and safety of their hearth. The same way, plenty of people facing an obstacle, fighting a disease, had to go through this on their own, without being able to share the burden with their loved ones. Simply because they had no one, or would end up alone due to the complications inevitably tailing any illness. It aims to step on you hard and strong, and only a saviour or pure luck can pull you from below.

Jacob had someone to rescue him. He had his family, he had his house, his garden – he wasn’t confined to the four walls of a hospital awaiting the abyss of nothingness spread over him, press his thoughts onto the pillow indefinitely, squeeze his dreams out of his sick body and leave an empty chunk of soulless mollusk. Lots of people are left face to face with their disease, all by themselves in their crispy beds, counting minutes until it happens, knowing it would and it was just a matter of time till their pain would evaporate together with the mere ability to breathe. Life is worth living while you have someone to share it with, to remind you of its meaning daily, someone willing to carry its weight with you and at times for you. He would struggle, push and fight until the end, desperately trying to survive, to watch his kids grow, to support Claire, to see the plum tree blossom. Which frog would he be, the one who managed to make its way out of the pit or the one that perished without much resistance?

A year later

Claire snoozed her annoying alarm and tentatively opened her eyes. The light was coming through the curtains, filling the whole room with the upcoming spring. She stepped on the floor, and sleepily approached the window. Through the slot in the curtains she could see outside. Fresh green morning was reigning, and she felt eager to succumb to its power.

Then she saw it – beautiful white flowers, like butterflies that wouldn’t leave, like snippets of clouds, covering the whole tree – a snowlike dress.

She ran outside, tears streaming down her face, and stopped in front of the tree. She tenderly passed her finger over the flowers, sobbing now, and sensed their fragrance. It smelt of warm wood, cool ocean, green grass, rose buds, and snow. It smelt of Jacob.

***

So, you go ahead, buddy! You did it! You’ve survived your first winter. There’ll be lots of obstacles on your way to producing your first fruit, there’ll be storms, and downpours, and parasites, but you’ve got to live, you’ve got to move on. For both.