The Color of Love

There was once an enormous peach tree in the backyard of the home where I grew up.  Unlike the fruit trees of today, this tree had a massive trunk with welcoming branches that reached to the sky.  I remember spending many summer afternoons, laying, sitting and sleeping amongst the branches of this friend.  As I recall this friend, I am also remembering my many drives through the fruit tree groves of central California.  If ever you find the opportunity to do so, you will see that fruit trees of today have been engineered to put most of their energy into making fruit, not trunk.  The trees are smallish and uniform, lined up like soldiers in rows that stretch to infinity up and down the San Joaquin Valley.

This magnificent tree kept me safe.  No one knew how much time I spent there.  Shortly after climbing the tree for the first time, I discovered I wasn't the only person who'd found solace amongst the loving arms.  Towards the top, I found an ancient and weathered chain wrapped around the central trunk.  On this chain was an iron cross.  Both the chain and cross were weathered with rust and the long passage of time.  I remember lovingly touching the cross.  In that moment, the tree responded with a gentle sway, and all the branches of its whole seemed to rejoice in my discovery.  Someone had loved this tree, and they had bestowed this talisman as a reminder of their love.  

I would now love this tree.

My friend.

In the afternoon, a gentle breeze would make its way across the Eel River peninsula where Alderpoint jutted out into its depths.  Alderpoint was the town of my childhood, and this amazing living thing was a permanent resident of my backyard.  The breeze, coupled with the warmth of the sun, lovingly enveloped those sun-touched spheres of love.  The embrace of the trees branches as arms, the warmth, and the scent of that beautiful friend brought me such comfort.

My friend brought an even greater joy towards the end of August each year. For it was usually at this time when its fruit reached the pinnacle of ripened glory.  I would employ a ladder, along with baskets, and boxes to harvest this love.  The peaches would then be moved to paper bags and shared with the people of the town.

In the heat of those August days, I would sometimes sample a bit of that delicious love for myself.  These were special peaches.  They were special in a way that everyone could enjoy, beyond my own attachment to the tree.  My mother called the fruit from this tree Arabian Peaches.  I do not know if they actually were from the Middle East, what I do know about them came years later when I discovered they are called Blood Peaches.  The flesh of this fruit was a deep purple and its juice was tinged red.

The juice was tinged red, the color of love.

I miss my friend.