Memory is a tomb prised open by robbers who’ve made off with anything valuable, leaving nothing behind for us but a rotting, dilapidated coffin. This coffin’s planks were once a tree, burgeoning and full of vigour, rising majestically above the village. In its youth, this tree stood near the village gate, by the side of a road, or in a field somewhere, so tall and elegant everyone wanted to touch it. Maybe they had designs on it, yearning to transplant it to their own homes, or wondering how much salt or meat its lumber could be traded for.
There might have been trees in the world before there were humans. How can we prove we aren’t their descendants?
Wherever there is a village, there will surely be trees too. Or perhaps these villages are located there because of those trees. Stand on a mountain ridge. If you see a darker patch of leaves and branches in the distance, a village surely lies hidden. Obscuring the origin and existence of these humans. Concealing their names, their clans, their proliferation; their secrets, loves and hopes. Elm, locust, toon, mahogany, pine, cypress, ginkgo, honey locust and paulownia trees. Over a hundred species, a living museum of northern Chinese flora. Every household has peach trees that blossom each year. Almond trees whose branches reach over garden walls. Vines draped from trellises, dangling juicy bunches of grapes around the time the pomegranates blush red, making a passer-by so thirsty he wanders in asking for a drink of water, not leaving till he has devoured a hefty bunch of grapes and slipped a couple of pomegranates into his pocket on the way out.
Willow trees don’t have to grow on riverbanks.
Fruit trees don’t need to be in orchards or yards. Plains and hills are their homes too.