Weeping Cherries

It takes a while for them to decide.

The garden has always been a jumbled mess of different plants, so why should this be any different? There are merits to each species they look at, but eventually they agree upon a walnut tree.

It’s a cold spring morning when they decide to dig. The night brought rain, so the soil is soft enough to push a spade through. As the older sibling, she works harder to make it perfect. A spot is chosen at the far end of the property, where they can no longer see the house or any of the memories it holds.

‘It’s cold,’ the younger complains, fingers shoved into gloves a size too small, stepping between her feet as she tries to stimulate her circulation. At her side, her older sister barely spares her a glance.

Her focus is on the walnut tree.

‘You were the one that wanted to do this,’ she reminds her sibling, but not unkindly. The girl is too young to remember this tradition, and her sister would hate to remind her of all the times this has been done before. Instead, she begins to dig the hole.

‘Do we give it a name? Will I need to water it?’

She doesn’t stop digging. If she thinks about it for too long, she might have to deal with the fact that she won’t be here to see this tree grow. That, by the time her sister has to plant the next one, she’ll be alone.

‘Just make sure it roots well, and it should be fine,’ she promises, wiping sweat from her brow despite the chill.

By the time the hole is big enough, her sister is shivering. The coat is buttoned up wrong, with a large patchwork over a hole from last year. The longer she stares at the jacket, the more she regrets not saving up more to buy her sibling a new one.

Instead, they have a walnut tree.

‘Can I do it?’ her sister asks, peering into the void in front of them.

She nods, cutting the tag from the tree’s trunk. ‘Of course. Be gentle, you don’t want to damage it.’

The tree is taller than her.

She watches as her sister struggles, lifting it up from near the base and staggering over to the hole, before she drops it down into the plot. With that done, she reaches for the bag of soil that the elder brought up here the night before.

‘Remember to take your gloves off, I don’t want them getting mucky,’ she chides, slicing the bag open with her pocketknife before gesturing for her sister to continue.

Her excitement doesn’t fade. There must be something thrilling about being young, something that she’s forgotten. Watching her younger sister repeatedly scoop cold soil into the hole, she wonders if she was this excited the first time mother took her to plant a tree. She certainly doesn’t remember it being this exciting.

When she steps back, her teeth are chattering. Rosy cheeks are stained with tears from the cold, or perhaps the elder didn’t realise that her sister could comprehend what they were doing together.

‘Is that good enough?’

The soil has been spilt all over the edges, ruining the grass around. The spade is half-buried in the mess, and the bag has been ripped too far to save the rest of it for later use.

‘Perfect.’

She replaces the turf, patting down the soil and then using her boot to stomp it into place. Her sister quickly gets the idea, joining in with an airy giggle when she sinks a little into the indent.

Together, they make sure the tree is firmly secured in place.

‘We should make a sign!’ her sister exclaims, clapping her muddy hands together.

She’s not too sure about the idea. Glancing over the rest of the garden, she stares at the other out-of-place plants. An acorn tree racing towards the sky, a sycamore that hasn’t yet properly bloomed. There’s an oak that’s been here for at least fifty years.

Four of the random trees are from her lifetime.

This one, this tiny little walnut tree, is her fifth.

It’s her sister’s first, and for that reason, she agrees. ‘If you’d like,’ she replies, already feeling the strain of being outside for this long.

It’s a startling reminder that, one day, she’ll be part of this garden too.

‘I can put mummy’s name on it!’

She wouldn’t like that, the elder thinks. Biting her tongue, she settles for placing a hand around the girl’s shoulders, guiding her away from the tree.

They walk the long way back. Winding through the orchard, feet squelching slightly on the wet ground as they head home.

Occasionally, she wonders if she should be pointing out the other random trees. Her eyes linger on the sycamore, before deciding against it.

‘What’s your favourite tree?’

The question is heavily loaded. The girl is too young to realise it now, but one day, the answer will determine how she’s remembered.

The answer is already there. She’s had this conversation before, and asked it in return. It’s the reason why she guided her younger sibling to the walnut tree in the first place.

‘Prunus subhirtella,’ she replies, without skipping a beat.

Her sister frowns. ‘That’s made up.’

A smile ghosts over her lips. ‘It’s a weeping cherry. They’re pretty in the spring, with all their blossom.’

She watches the girl’s eyes light up at the thought of blossom. ‘Then it’s my favourite.’

Laughter bubbles out of before she can stop it. It’s nothing more than a chuckle, a reminder of last spring when everything was perfect.

Her sister looks delighted. Blue eyes sparkle in the early light, a glint of mischief that will cause issues later in the day.

‘You can find your own favourite,’ she gently reminds, unable to help herself from running fingers through the golden curls on the girl’s head. ‘You’ll have a long time to think about it.’

The girl hums, clearly focused on the house in front.

The back-porch light is one, supposed to be welcoming them back inside.

Does her sister feel welcomed?

‘So do you,’ the girl says, and she startles from her thoughts.

‘What?’

‘You have a long time to think about it, too,’ her sister tells her.

I don’t, she thinks.

They reach the porch, and she unlocks the door. The smell of cinnamon and apples lingers from her attempts to bake last night, but it also reminds her that she hasn’t yet offered breakfast to her sister.

‘Shoes off,’ she reminds her sibling, watching in amusement as the girl struggles to kick both her boots off. With them abandoned in the middle of the floor, tiny arms break free of the coat that confines her. Its home lies with the shoes and the mud; her sister’s attention is already on the promise of a warm slice of pie for breakfast.

‘What do we even do with walnuts?’ she calls from the kitchen, as the elder hangs the items up.

The coat has seen better days. Soon, she reminds herself, her coat will be passed onto her sister.

She won’t be cold then.

‘Eat them,’ she replies, moving into the kitchen and flicking the kettle on.

The younger is already clambering up onto the table, desperate to be involved.

She makes sure to turn her back for just enough time to open the draw where her medication is kept, counting out her daily dose and swallowing them down dry, before turning back to her sibling.

‘Now, how about some pie?’

‘I want walnuts,’ the girl complains, pouting.

‘They’re not ready yet,’ the elder chimes, moving to the girl’s side to kiss her forehead. ‘In a few years, they will be. You’ll have all the walnuts you want.’

Content with the answer, the girl allows her sister to prepare pie for breakfast.

A cold spring morning, seven years later, a blonde-haired girl collects walnuts from a tree with a sign at the bottom. The coat she’s wearing is still too big, but it’s warm enough to protect her from the chill.

‘This should be enough,’ she says to herself, turning away from the walnut tree and walking back towards the house.

She spares a glance to the weeping cherry.

It’ll be its first blossom-year, she thinks.