There is a tree in our backyard that is the ideal of what all trees should look like. Its trunk is precisely straight, and its branches arch out at asymmetrical intervals, which, even though asymmetrical, are spaced just so that viewed as a whole, the tree appears satisfyingly balanced. I’m not sure what kind of tree it is, but its leaves are wide, green and plentiful – and somewhat shaped like starfish.
When we first moved into the house, I remember looking at the tree and being excited to wonder if when autumn fell, its leaves would turn brown and shed themselves around our lawn in a thicket of foliage as colourless and brittle as century-old paper. It’s the end of March now, and I’m still waiting for any of the trees in this city to go bare.
Beneath the tree, there is a singular white chair facing a singular white table. I placed them there with the notion that on my days off, I would sit outside in the shade of this perfect specimen, and write.
But I never do.
I tried it out once or twice, but the ants and mosquitoes constantly biting at my feet and loitering by the tip of my nose distracted me so much that I never got anything done.
Instead, I usually find myself sitting down in the paved courtyard closer to the house when I want to think, or write, or drink tea; and often I look up at the tree with its chair and table, and imagine how poetic I would look sitting there and writing.
When you left, you said, “You only ever loved the idea of me.”
I think I’m beginning to understand what that means.