My grandmother gave me a pear tree, when I was about four or so. I remember when it was small enough to fit standing upright in our garage. I should really remember that whenever I feel sorry for the fact that it never did grow into very much of a tree. Not magnificent and wide spread. It grew up, simply upward. Never outward. It's been alive all these years, but is a runty little tree.
Pear Tree
It never got much sun, I guess, thanks
to that giant no-name, rather anonymous bush that towered next to it like
a tree but had no definite stump.
So my pear tree never really grew pears. It grew a single, perfect, flawless,
delicious pear. One. And then it was done. I feel like my pear
tree just felt like it needed to prove to me, that it was, indeed a Pear Tree,
and not just a regular tree. Afterwards, it just went back to being it's
fruitless little self.