THE PEAR TREES
THE PEAR TREES I plant pear trees to edge the driveway, to greet my car as it rumbles into the garage, to blossom tiny white flowers in spring. Trees mature; sex intrudes. Who knew they were now surreptitiously baby-making in those innocent white blossoms? The first sign, a hard lump within delicate white petals, suspicious— a fungus? a walled-off insect? No, babies. Soon, many, many, many babies. My treasured white flowers fall away, overwhelmed by the growing embryos who no longer need them. Months pass. The driveway is bedecked with trees whose greenish-yellow hanging ornaments soon detach, fall, stack up on my lawn, the neighbor’s lawn, the driveway, the car if I carelessly leave it shaded by the trees for a quick foray into the house. I run over the trees’ newborns. Birds, squirrels, chipmunks gorge themselves on them. Children scoot over, grab some, run away with sweet treasures. Please, please take more! After years of more than plenty, I cut down the fecund trees, plant non-fruit-bearing ones that blossom tiny white flowers in the spring, unencumbered by the trouble sex brings. Esta Grossman