Climbing a Date Tree

Alex Carrigan

I knew that I wanted to gift you dates from the trees that peppered the edge of our shared property.

You could have walked under the trees with a woven basket on your head and waited for them to plummet to you, but I wanted to be the one to take those medjools and put them in your hand, one by one, each one a child I would promise to give you once I finished working on that beater car in my garage.

To acquire those promises, I covered my hand with a glove that had a curved hook on the end. I held it up to the sky, matching the shape of that evening’s moon, and wondered if I could hook it and bring that down to you as well.

With only one hand free as I began my climb, I knew that I could easily carve a crescent in my throat if I slipped. Would you stand under me and catch my blood in your basket if that were to happen? You could take that as a gift instead and use it to water the base of the date tree so that the next jewels to grow from its branches are rubies you could use to pay off your mother’s medical bills.

My core is strong from years of laboring the fields, and my balance is strengthened from walking along the curve of the earth for even longer, so I reach the top and pluck dates into my shirt pocket before I begin my descent.

When I reach the earth once again, will you please hold out your hands so that I can first hold them to my cheeks? My ascent up the tree wasn’t as frightful as I assumed, but even I knew that any treasures I bring to you could easily become cursed if I didn’t follow the ritual properly.

Then you’d be burying dates on top of my grave in hopes that I could become a tree with a bent trunk that foolish young men could walk up to collect the jewels up top.

After Christine Sloan Stoddard