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Kai Ling’s Tree

The pink flowers are blooming again. I get the news of the synchronized flowering in themorning and feel a rush of elation, a burst of joy in my heart. I have been waiting for itduring the months of cold. When the flowering arrives, it tells time and speaks of warmth. No doubt there will be traditional family triads and large kin-groups making their way tothe grove now, armed with picnic baskets filled with celebratory foods and mats for sitting. It will be a day of singing, laughter and contemplative admiration of the pink flowers.I open the door and lift my eyes to the silvery skies, seeing the glint of a shuttle in mid-take off. The air is still chill and the scientists have promised that they would continueworking on the climate controls. But still the pink flowers promise a time of warm daysand intense work in the many micro-gardens. Then it will be shutdown again and we willspend our lives in an anticipatory mood.Wearing a long-sleeved plain blouse and a long green sarong, I walk to the grove. Thegrove has been there long before I was born, planted by the pioneers and nurtured bytheir descendents. I walk faster, stirred by longing – one of the pioneers was my ancestor,a horticulturist by the name of Kai Ling. She was my maternal great grandmother withthe family name of Kang. One of the trees bears her imprint, a plaque dedicated to her.She was buried under her tree as well.I can already hear the sounds of music and off-key but sincere songs now. Many kin-groups have brought their musical instruments: sitar, gamelan and pipa. I can see brightlycolored ladies, dressed in their clan finery, dancing under the pink trees, their handsgraceful arches.1

Ah, the pink trees. They are lush and abundant with the pink and white flowers. Their common name is

Trumpet Tree

. Heralding the advent of the season of warmth. I look atthe bottom of the trees – already the flowers are falling, making concentric rings aroundtheir mother trunks. Their lives – beautiful and vivid – are still tragically brief.Another silver glint in the sky – another shuttle. It must be one of the temperature-controlshuttles, monitoring the situation. Neo-Temasek is not perfect. So is terra-forming Mars. Ican see Mars fighting to take back what is Hers day by day. I open the door to whispersof red sand and sand granules every day and listen to the gentle dust storms in the nights.I wonder how the pink trees manage the onslaught though. They are exiles like their human counterparts.Someone has popped a champagne bottle and there is a babble of cheers and somelaughter as the bubbly drink is shared in many glass goblets. I smile and wave at myneighbors who offer me plates of sweet kueh – they are delicious! – and red date tea.They have also noticed the falling of the flowers and the temperature-control shuttle.Martha tsk-tsks about lazy scientists but her husband, Tsu, retorts back with a joke thateven scientists need their break. I soon bid my farewell and make my way to Kai Ling’sTree.Kai Ling’s Tree is a little far-off from the rest of her sister trees, a middle-sized tree ladenwith white trumpet flowers. There is a soft carpet of fallen flowers beneath the branchesstill heavy with the blooms. I kneel down and clean her plaque with a piece of tissue. Her name has been obscured by soil, probably scattered during one of the automated wateringsessions. I remember that this time is also Qing Ming, the time to remember the dead. Ihave not brought any celebratory or offertory food, only myself.I settle beneath the tree and simply observe the clusters of people happily celebratingaway. Their joy is infectious and I find myself smiling. For a moment, I regret choosingthe life of a single woman. I would have chosen a life in a triad and even being pregnantand looking after my children would have seemed tempting. Yet the things I have chosen2

to do, the life paths I have taken, require a solitary existence. The nearest kin I have isKai Ling’s Tree. I think my maternal great grandmother would understand. She is ascientist. I am only continuing her legacy.There is a soft breeze, carrying with it a hint of Mars – the smell of desert soil and thegritty feel of it. I find sand on my sarong and I dust it away. The breeze stir the flowersand some of them start to fall, like soft white snow --Suddenly the siren shatters everything. It is the dust-storm siren, blaring, unwelcome andinsistent. I can hear shouts of dismay. People begin to throw everything back into their baskets, rolling the mats in a hurry. Martian dust storms are deadly, known to scour everything in sight. All our houses are protected against such violence and all we can dois to wait and wait indoors.The breeze becomes a gust and more flowers fall, spinning down from the branches. Ilook around and pink flowers are raining down on the anxious kin-groups and triads in asilent and poignant cascade. After today’s dust storm and only today (because the pink flowers only bloom

once

and just for a day), the trees will be bare once more.I make my way amongst the running people. My neighbors. My friends. My colleagues.All around us are the falling flowers, silently spinning, dancing in a voiceless, soundless pirouette. I reach out and grab a handful. I will press them in my scrapbook andremember them just as I remember Kai Ling every year.3

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Kai Ling's Tree

Martian landscape, mass flowering, a woman's thoughts about her great grandmother.

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Category:	Creative Writing > Short Stories
Rating:	(1 Rating)
Upload Date:	04/20/2009
Copyright:	Attribution Non-commercial
Tags:	speculative fiction. speculative fiction. (fewer)