Before the Fall

Hedwig de Leon

“By hand” is how the Good

Gardener” picks his fruits, the Grey

Shaman says. It is the Shaman’s

Way, as well, of choosing Who to teach

What. “Again and again, shaken by Wind,

the tree drops the Unworthy.” He disputes

arguments that all the ripe

fruits—sooner than later—fall. “No,

he shakes his grey head, “they are not

allowed to fall, nor falter. They

are picked.” In my mind a scene

unfolds: fat pomegranates, hanging

from branches weary with weight:

how long before birds come

for the feast, or the fall? Will

the hand come before? I hear

my father’s voice: I am ripe. I am

ready for the picking.  I am a child

of ten once (too often!) again; mustering

a little stern, looking him straight

in the eye, I nod. And walk. Away.

Unyielding. I leave him, this cop-out,

alone with that stupid tree, thinking

“What, he brings me here, in a world

of mad aunts and mean mothers,

and blithely quits? Can’t he even stay,

wait, even just a little?” I am

a beggar: “Tell me, How? How

do I keep him on the tree, my tree,

when he seems to detach so easily?”

The scene vanishes as the Grey One hands

me a fruit, “Smell it, look at it, examine

the perfection. It had to be picked, today.

Tomorrow, it won’t be as good.”

Nineteen years—almost seven thousand

days!—has ground by before the Grey Shaman

showed what seems like a Wisdom—

a Wise-ness—two men,

unknowingly,

shared:

Father was picked,

because he is not

allowed

to fall.

January 2011