what the cherries know

The cherry tree we planted when Unity was born is suddenly producing. Over the years it's given us a handful of cherries, enough to eat in one sitting. This year, all of a sudden, the branches are full, dangling the small sweet globes in front of our faces.

It makes sense to me. The tree has been planted on this earth for five years, just like our little bubbie. We were at a dinner party earlier this evening and one of the parents was enumerating the list of responsibilities that came with being one whole hand. "When you are five you will brush your own teeth. When you are five you will wear bloomers under dresses. When you are five you will put your own plate in the dishwasher."

When you are five, you start to bear your own fruit.

                               We were coming home yesterday from a friend's baby shower and I saw a bird pecking at our tree. Chris ran and got a ladder and we picked all the cherries then and there.  A pie's worth, with some left over for snacking, freezing. Storing.

                   We sat there celebrating my friend and her husband and their sweet babe not yet here.  We brought the cake out and one of the 2 year olds wanted to sing. "Happy baby to you, happy baby to you." As the song ended, a lone voice called out "and many more." My friend's eyebrows shot up. "How many is many?" she asked, bemused.

It was good to talk to her, standing on that threshhold. And feeling too how far away from it I am. My big kids, sturdy legs and solid steps. The highchair burried in my basement, some artifact of other days. There is nothing like that burst of new life into the world, in all its wild joy and terror and transformation.

But at five years old you start to bear your own fruit. And I get to be there, to be a part of it. To watch the becoming. I am beyond blessed.