“I have some sad news for you.” Me Beloved’s face was mournful, but his mouth was twitching, which is never a good sign.
“About the pear tree.”
My favorite fruit in all the world is the Asian pear. I presume that this is because I am a Taurus and value expensive things, because the Asian pear is the most expensive pear I could possibly desire. Even in Asia, they’re considered delicacies that are often saved for guests, or shared between people, because they are expensive and difficult to cultivate. In Korea, there’s even an entire museum dedicated to them, which gives you an idea of its economic and cultural importance.
They are hard to find here. When they do come in, they sell out quickly, despite their price tags of $2 to $3 per pear. And while I adore them, I also have a difficult time spending that type of money as often as I would like to indulge my habit. My delicious, juicy habit.
So I thought I would be clever, since I had just moved into a house with a garden — I thought that I would make my own pears, to give myself the quantity that I would like. I did my research and purchased two Asian pear trees, because fruit trees need to cross-pollinate. I wasn’t able to get two of the same type, due to limited supply, and one was advertised as less delicious than the other. I put the less delicious tree on the median between the street and the sidewalk in front of our house as a sacrifice to neighborhood children. I am not a fool.
The good pears, I put in our front garden, inside our fence. Then I waited for them to grow.
Because they are fruit trees, in the third year, I expected to see a few pears. I picked them, but I picked them too soon and they weren’t very good. So I waited another turn of the year, leaving the pears on the trees until they were fat and plump. Then, I came home on picking day…and discovered that they were all gone.
Every single pear. Taken.
They say that there are five stages of grief. The first is denial. I went inside the house and asked my Beloved if he had picked the pears. He hadn’t. The second is anger. What kind of person would have taken ALL of the pears? What special kind of blanketyblank do you have to be? Are you freaking kidding me?
Then, bargaining. Do you think if we hadn’t planted one of the pear trees on the street…? Depression follows. There will be no pears. I don’t deserve these pears if I couldn’t protect them. Then, finally, acceptance. We’ll grow more next year.
So we did. And they disappeared, en masse, yesterday evening. I wish that I could blame it on kids, but a neighbor saw who took them last year, so I have my suspicions. My very adult suspicions.
I printed out a LOST PEAR poster and put it out on the telephone pole on our curb, with a picture of our missing pears. After all, I’m back in denial. Mourning will come later. How could it have happened again?
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