Go as a River

by Shelley Read

My trees had finally sprouted shiny green leaves and, among them, pea-sized buds, the miraculous promise of life and flower and fruit tightly bound in each. But that day, I went from branch to branch with clippers and killed every last one. Each snip upended all I had ever known about the sacredness of a peach bud, about caring for it like a jewel until it unfurled into a delicate pink blossom. Greeney’s research had convinced him there could be no fruit the first year after transplanting, maybe even two. Clipping the buds turned the tree’s energy back down into its roots, he said. Sacrificing these buds meant stronger growth later on. I had to believe him. But with every clip, with every precious bud dropping to the ground in waste, my gut ached and I wondered what Daddy would say. When the rain started up again, light and misty at first, then fierce and hard like falling pebbles, I just kept clipping, my tears mixing with the rain on my cheeks. I turned my face to the sky, eyes closed, arms out in a kind of surrender, and let the shower soak me clean through.