Promise of the Asian Pear Tree

Neither the little stick nor I bloomed where we were planted

- LAURA O’DONNELL, HOOPER, UTAH

I STEERED MY pickup down the long drive and out the front gate of the farmhouse. I watched in the rearview mirror as the house—and my dreams with it—faded from view.

In the bed of the pickup was most of what I owned. I was moving. Running away from an abusive marriage and yet another dead end. So much of my life had been a struggle. Abuse and neglect as a child. A first marriage to a violent alcoholic and drug addict. Then this second marriage, which had seemed so right. But he turned out to be abusive too, and I feared for myself and my kids.

I’d found a teaching job in Utah, near where I grew up, hundreds of miles from this farmhouse in rural Washington. My three older kids were grown and living on their own. My younger two were staying with their grandparents until I got settled in Utah.

I was scared. I’d started over so many times. Why would this time be any different?

Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw the plant pot in the pickup bed. That was my little tree. An Asian pear tree my mom had given me as a housewarming present when my second husband and I moved into the farmhouse. Asian pears were my favorite fruit.

The tree had never grown. Like so much else in my life, it withered. I wasn’t totally confident it was still alive. I dug it up anyway, potted it and put it in the truck. I couldn’t abandon it. It looked exactly the way I felt.