The Last Spring

This is my 108th spring and I still haven’t done it. I know I made a promise to myself many many springs ago that this was going to be the one and that I would finally do it, but here we are. And I still haven’t done it. Not one bit. Not yet.

Ever since I was a tiny young sprout, my dream was to grow big and beautiful, just like all those others around me. But one look at me and you’ll know immediately who’s the odd one out in the family. I’m hideous, broken and deformed. Definitely not like my peers or family. Compared to them, I’m an abomination. One might think I’m not even the same species as them.

And it’s not even my fault, or at least I don’t think it is. Not that I’m adopting any victim mindsets here or avoiding responsibility, but my condition was kind of given to me, it just sorta happened. 

I wasn’t always like this, physically deformed. When I was still young, too little to even be noticed, I was just like the rest of my peers. Small and cute. But all babies are cute when they’re small, it’s when they grow up that things start to change for them. If I knew back then what I know now I probably wouldn’t want to grow up. At least not so eagerly.

I could blame it on the bad environment that I grew up in for my appearance or blame my parents for not teaching me how to grow or giving me enough support. Or for stealing my food and water, even. But I don’t. They did the best they could, giving me life and the earth did the best it could, nurturing me.

I could blame the bad weather that hit me so many times in my life and left its many marks on me, cuts and bruises, breaks and cracks. I survived them all, bending hard in the wind, even breaking sometimes, but never falling down completely. And though bad times certainly left their marks, making me even more hideous, I don’t blame them either.

I could blame my peers for keeping me in their shadow, taking all for themselves and leaving only hard earned scraps for me, while I watched their abundance. While they grew more in life, I was left with nothing more but hopes and dreams to feed on. Yet I don’t blame them either.

When you reach a certain age such as mine, you slowly start to see the patterns of life unfold. It slowly becomes clear to you why things work the way that they do. When you’re young, you don’t have the whole picture yet, you only have glimpses. But now I know better.

Those who grew too fast or too tall and spoiled themselves in what nature gave them, have long fallen down. While I still stand.

Those who always looked their best and fines were brought down by others, who sought to have their splendor for themselves. While my hideousness remained of no interest to anyone.

Those who never experienced any bad weather in their lives, broke at the first gust of wind, while I endured the hurricanes and now bear their scars. And I still stand.

In a way, I have grown to cherish my scars. My deformities. My ugliness and shortcomings. I used to despise myself and guilt myself over how I looked and about all the things I couldn’t do that others could, but I don’t anymore. Maybe it's because I’m old and don’t give a damn anymore and maybe it’s because I’m too tired and weary to care. But I still stand. And I still have that childish dream of one day doing it. One spring. Perhaps even this one.

None of my peers from childhood are alive anymore. Neither is anyone from my family. I never had any descendants because of my disformity and inability to have them. But even so, I am never lonely. Children and animals sometimes come by and they play around me. They don’t seem to mind how I look, old and broken. To them, such things are irrelevant and I like their company. Perhaps I learned to cherish my scars from them. Children can be wise teachers.

I don’t know how many springs I will still live to see, as I can feel my body drying up from the inside, slowly. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up with each year. The food is harder to digest, the water harder to drink. The weather of life is harder to endure. This last winter was awfully cold and I almost froze.

So this spring may be my last chance to do it.

To finally do it.

And I feel as ready and determined as ever to try for one last time.

But this time, not because I feel that if I don’t do it, I will be somewhat less than others, have less value and worth. It’s not because I want to look pretty and be able to do all the things that my peers once could. My peers are dead and I don’t need to impress anyone.

I’m not even doing it for myself.

It’s the children that I want to do it for now. They come visit me every year and they sit around, waiting patiently if I could do it that year. When they see that I can’t they never blame or judge or criticize. They simply say “Next spring then!”

And this year, this spring, I want to reward their patience. May lightning strike me down if I should fail this time!

And so, on my 108th spring, I try again.

“Look everyone, the cherry is blossoming!”

A group of five children runs through what remains of the town’s once blooming park and they all gather to observe the only tree left standing.

An old cherry.

It’s branches are twisted, from a lifetime of hard growth. Many of them are broken.

It’s trunk is drying up, already hollow inside.

The knees of its roots peek out from the washed away soil and ivy grows over its bark, sucking away what little juice the tree has left.

And yet, this year, for the very first time, the old tree produces gentle white blossoms at the tips of its twigs and broken branches. 

This spring, the tree blossoms and in the summer it shall produce its first fruit. Fruit that has been so long in the making, its taste is promised to be worth a lifetime of effort. As all truly great things in life are.

Doing what you love. And sharing it with others. Regardless of anything.