Bloom

by MK Valero

tree: /trē/ a woody plant, typically having a single stem or trunk growing to a considerable height
and bearing lateral branches at some distance from the ground*

Growing up, I wondered what kind of tree grew in my backyard. It just existed for as long as I can
remember. What stemmed from its branches in spring were golden raindrops that grew in bunches and
would bruise by the wind’s touch--and its leaves were painted by something my brother would call
“permanent dust,” which crunched like typical autumn leaves. But its shape was different. The leaves felt
heavy in my hands--heavier when I swept the fallen ones.
That tree was Mother’s favorite plant in the garden. Most of the time, she tended roses, vegetables, daisies
and orchids, but many times, I would watch her admire the budding flowers that resembled cherry
blossoms. She reminded me of a Disney princess when the winds picked up flower petals and danced
around her. The only thing missing was a prince.
Papa left us before I learned to speak. Mother never showed her tears, nor did she let a man in her heart
after him. If Mother taught me anything, she taught me to fight and protect my own happiness, just as she
did with her tree in the backyard.
When May arrived, Mother enjoyed picking the fruits from the tree. She would eat a bowl full of it every
morning and feed the rest to me right after. I used to complain about the lack of sweetness in that tiny
fruit and eventually, Mother kept the fruits to herself. Looking back at that moment, I wish I had
appreciated her labor. But I also wondered what made the fruits so important to her. Maybe it transported
her back home to the mango tree she once tendered when she herself was a little girl. Back in the
Philippines, to a place where she felt warmth, comfort, and safety in her family’s arms. I still can’t say to
this point in life.
One day, I asked Mother, “Ma, what’s this tree called?” She didn’t answer, but I knew she loved that tree
more than the plump red roses, the flamboyant daisies, and the daring orchids that grew around it. Sharing
its name would be like sharing a lover with someone else, and, like me, Mother protected everything she
loved with her bruised hands.
As I got older, I asked many times “Ma, what is it—what’s this tree called?” with silence as my answer.
Mother owned it all—the answer to my question, my name, everything. Including the silence between us
that dragged on for years.
That is, until Mother passed away quietly weeks before my twelfth birthday. When papa came back into
my life—out of sympathy or something else, I will never know—he warned me to never go to the
backyard, so we don’t ruin Mother’s hard work. I wondered why he believed that. Because now, who else
will watch over it and pick out the fruits of my mother’s labor? Who will enjoy and appreciate it like she
did? Who will put in as much time and effort as she did?
Even with papa’s warning, I admired the garden from inside. I watched the seasons go by, watched as the
fruits fall from the tree and the squirrels pick at it again and again, watched the flowers wilt and die time
and time again until it no longer had the will to live, and watched the tree grow taller and taller.
The more I grew, the more papa neglected life, and the more I needed to run away. I was nineteen when I
left Mother’s house. With no direction to go, I ended up living a handful of towns south from home,
barely passing through month after month. But I had much rather stay on that path than go back.
Now reaching the strange age of thirty and fortunately in much better living conditions, a random search
on Google for the next “billion-dollar story” (used to be “million”) lead me to something beautiful.
Loquat. The yellow pear-shaped fruit with light-colored flesh that grew in small bunches.
I can’t even begin to tell you about the tears and the smile on my face upon my discovery. This little fruit
brought closeness and comfort between me and Mother, and, as short-lived as it may be, it also brought a
sense of distance and mystery that shrouded her life. And finally, I discovered a name for it all. Loquats.
To this day, I still wonder about the loquats growing in the backyard. I haven’t seen papa since I left, but I
won’t forget his negligence toward Mother. I bet he hasn’t stepped foot in her garden. But I guarantee that
the loquat tree is still blooming in that dead garden because I know Mother still tends to it. Somehow,
some way.
All that’s left of Mother are the memories of her, that Loquat tree and this invaluable story; and I believe
that’s more than enough for me.