The Tree

The bark was almost the color of charcoal and too rough for a boy to grip and hold on to climb without bare skin being grazed and scraped back to bloodied welts. The trunk was scabbed in gum oozed out of old wounds. That almond was the tallest tree in the backyard, its height remained unconquered. Come August it was first into blossom and gave the sweetest smell to seal the last of winter's musty damp. By the end of summer its shells were hard as granite and a miscued strike by a hammer on a brick to crack would send the nut flying off like a bullet. Once cracked, the kernel was almost tasteless and not worth the effort. It was there to service the needs of the other almond trees. Stretched beneath its spread, a carpet of nasturtiums kept traffic away from its base. One hot afternoon a brown snake broke from the flowery cover and slid across the lawn. My father cut it in half with a shovel. It hung draped over the clothesline all afternoon, its glassy eyes fixed in a constant stare towards the other half of its severed self. That almond tree holds an uneasy place in memory. It stands unconquered, taller and deep in its own dark, always aloof, its perfumed blossom hiding whatever lays coiled at its feet.