Persimmon Tree

The smell of ripe persimmons fills the candlelit workroom. On these nights, the tart flavored air brings back so many memories. I remember sitting on this same bench fixated on the large, coarse hands of my father. With tantalizing deftness, he would fix the oiled paper onto the thin bamboo frame with a light coat of persimmon resin. Mother would paint white jasmine and swaying willows with her lacquers. The night hovered in the heady fragrance of persimmons, oil, lacquer, and happiness. But these memories are twenty years old. And in the candlelight, it is my own large, coarse hands that weave and paint these rain-shades.

The night is steeped in tranquility. The candle glow and the smell of persimmons keep me company. Beyond the rugged hill is the town, but in the calm of this bamboo grove, I can weave my dreams. The jasmine can be more pure than the transient silver crescent, more enchanting than the shimmering starlight. The willow can cry as many tears as he wants. No one can hear him. The rustling bamboo echoes with hollow percussions. The candle glow and the smell of persimmons keep me company.

The warmth of dawn spills over the hills. I should leave soon if I want to reach the town before midday. I hide the supplies in the unused furnace, and fill the cart with rain-shades. With some luck, I should be able to bring back enough grains and chickens to last through the next season. There's no point going to town more often than I need to. The townspeople dull me with their rice-patty jokes and harvest stories.

The Chen's are setting up their herbal medicine stall as I arrive. I nod politely to Old Chen. The street quickly becomes crowded with haggling farmers, the laughter of children, the rounded matrons, and the occasional loose chicken. I smell the absence of persimmons. Almost involuntarily, I throw a longing glance at the hill.

The monsoon season is coming, and my cart empties quicker than I had expected. One last rain-shade remains. I take out a soft canvas sheet and wrap the rain-shade carefully. With a sigh of relief, I begin to untie the banner. Amidst the muddled voices of the crowd, I hear a young girl's whisper.

"One with white jasmine, mama."

I turn to find the voice, and I find her staring sadly at the empty cart. Behind her, a woman with tattered sleeves pushes through the crowd. The woman clutches a string of copper coins in her hand. The air is tinged with the fragrance of herbs, oil, jasmine and sadness. I unravel the bundle in my hands, and slide my fingers slowly over the white lacquer - the same strokes of jasmine my mother used to paint. I place the rain-shade in the girl's small hands. The woman offers me the copper coins, but I close her hand with mine. She looks at me, confused. I shake my head, gently letting go of her fingers. The little girl holds the rain-shade against her body, guarding it. The woman smiles at me, but I feel myself turn away. They disappear back into the crowd.

"Another great market day, I see," the farm-hand says as he loads my cart with sacks of rice. I smile back without thinking. The sun is setting, and home is still beyond the hills. I draw the cart behind me, and soon the town disappears into the night. The moon is obscured by a blanket of dark clouds. Distant thunder mixes with the smell of rain. I reach into my satchel, forgetting that only the canvas sheet remains.

Standing alone on the gravel path, I suddenly realize that I have never been touched by the rain in all my life. I double my pace, hoping I can reach the cottage before the storm arrives. In the darkness, the protruding root of an aged oak catches my foot, and I stumble to the ground. As I lie stunned, a flash of silver illuminates the sky, silhouetting the leaves and branches of the oak.

I try to stand and regain my bearing. A drop of rain falls on my cheek. The gentle chill seeps through my body. As thin rivulets of rain course over my face and hands, a rusted pain I was never aware of is washed away. Suddenly I understand. Is this what have I been running from all these years?