Cherry Trees

My earliest memory is of cherry trees. I was three years old. Three huge trees in our back garden in Linden, Johannesburg, towered over me and my one-year-old brother. Fallen fruit gleamed red in the patchy grass between the exposed roots. I remember the feeling of dappled sunlight on my skin as I clutched at the scarlet orbs, intoxicated by the sweet overripe smell. Recently, I discovered we were only in that house for three months, so I asked my mother about my intense memory of cherry-excitement. She explained that our cherry season was very long because the trees were of diverse varieties and fruited at different times. So the fruit kept coming for six weeks—half the time we lived there.

Perhaps my perceptions were sharpened by a slight edge of danger about the scene too. This was probably due to adult anxiety about the choking hazard, but also because the trees were close to where my brother’s toddler friend nearly drowned. I do not remember the incident itself, but I do remember the space. The cherry trees had made a mess and the swimming pool had been drained for cleaning. Whether it was on the same day or another that we children were on the floor of the almost empty pool with my father while he cleaned it, I do not know. I do remember my fascination with the sheer blue walls from this unusual perspective, and the thrill of displacement: being in air, but lower than the trees, and feeling emboldened by the sight of a “me-sized” puddle at the deep end instead of the usual imposing body of water.

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