SYCAMORE TREE

Blanche took a drag of her cigarette, filtered, not that it changes much. She releases the smoke with a sigh and takes a sip of her rosé. The taste is sour, mixing with the dull tobacco flavor of her cig. Through the smoke appeared the hazy outline of a sycamore tree. It’s been a long time since it was a sapling, but now it stands tall in its adolescence. If only she didn’t have to give up her job, her life as a horticulturalist, but now she would be too weak and soon…

“I really wish you’d stop smoking so much, Blanche,” said Harry, arms crossed as he leaned against the threshold of the garden door. His eyes and shoulders were heavy with the weight of the world, interrupting her train of thought.

“Its not like it matters, Harry. Besides you’re not the one smoking it,” Blanche retorted.

“Look, we both know that’s not how secondhand smoke works.”

“Well, if you’re going to lecture me about high school health and wellness facts, I’d rather just skip the conversation all together.”

“Blanche, you know I don’t mean it like that. I’m just worried about you. Why do you have to be like this?”

“You’re right, I’m sorry… but I don’t see the point of making a fuss over a cig and some wine. I don’t have much left anyways.”

“You’re right…”

A heavy silence falls over the garden. Not even a bird could be heard singing… not that there was much to sing about on a day like this. The verdant greens and floral colors of the garden were seeped in a sepia like melancholy, and in the center was Blanche, leaning back taking one last drag. She stood from her table, making sure the rosé came along with her. She walked over to the small sycamore tree in the middle of the small pavilion.

“Remember when I planted this two years ago?” she asked.

“Yeah, you were so excited to start working here even if it was just a temp-gig,” Harry said.

“A temp-gig… you and your musician speak. It’s called a part-time job on earth Bon Jovi.”

“Hey, you knew who I was when you married me. Besides, I remember you asking me to write you a song for years.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Harry, do you think… that this tree will grow big and strong? Will it be here long after… you know?”

“Yeah… I know it will. You planted it after all.”

“Charming as always.”

Blanche turned towards her husband and the two entwined in a solemn embrace. She placed her ashy lips on his. He could taste the wine as they lost themselves in the moment.

“Harry, I wish I didn’t have to leave. This garden, it’s perfect for us, but with the illness getting worse I just don’t know if I can keep it this way… Now someone else will tend to my plants. It won’t be ours anymore.”

“Blanche… I’m sure Doctor Brennan will figure something out. He is the leading expert—”

“Harry don’t! I just want to spend whatever time I have left here in our garden with you. We both know it’s too late for me.”

“Blanche…”

“Harry, please.”

The two sat in the silence of the garden. Blanche could smell the fabric softener on his brown bomber jacket. It’s always amusing to her how such a cool guy could walk around smelling like lavender. She looked into her husband’s eyes. They were like pools of honey from the sunlight. She always loved his eyes.

“Harry, could you write me one of your songs again… so we can have something all our own?”

“I though you never asked me for one.”

“I didn’t, stupid, but now I am asking.”

“Sure, Blanch. Anything for you, dear.”

“Harry, I love you more than I’ll ever be able to say.”

“I love you too, Blanche, for all time and more.”

The couple left the garden hand in hand, Blanche’s rosé still in hand, the cig resting in the ashtray near her old sycamore.

“You know you’re not supposed to drink out here, right?”

“So? They’ll just fire me. I don’t care. I quit.”

Giggling, the two walked through the historical society, as if it was their world and no one else’s.

“Hey, I thought of a name for your song.”

“What song?”

“Ha ha…”

“What is it?”

“I’m not telling you now, asshole.”

“Oh, come on, you big baby. Tell me.”

Hanging from his arm, Blanche smiled for the first time in a long while.

“Sycamore Tree.”

Andrew Hendrix is a veteran of the United States Air Force. During his service he traveled the world and gained an appreciation for stories and art from around the world.