Plum Tree

About the Author

The only plum tree

I remember

stood in the backyard

of the old family house.

I'd climb the stiff branches

and peer over the fence

at the ping pong table

my neighbor Butchie had set up

for our summer games.

I would listen for the bell

of his rickety backdoor and watch

him walk out in a clean white t-shirt,

swinging his paddle, as if he were

about to take on a national champion

rather than this small girl cousin

who occasionally won

by sheer endurance. Perhaps

it was the tree blossoming year

after year in spite of worms

and threats to chop it down that

kept me going. When Butchie

married and moved away, I went on

paddling balls against the wall

until the season changed and the tree

began to drop its leaves.

I would rest my head against the trunk

and feel life push up from the roots

to the open sky. One fall day

I would be gone too, a woman now

with other rallies passing over the net.

The table splintered, our houses

aged and died in the cold of winter,

and the ivy laden fence turned

on its side, leaving the tree exposed

to dogs and new kids on roller blades.

I see this in driving by to the cemetery.

Parked across the street, I listen

for the bell but watch only a few leaves

circling the ravaged trunk

and move on.

from The Asian Pacific American Journal

Spring Summer 1998