September 2, 2014 by theresiugoes
This is my mulberry tree. She is big and tall and her leaves are large and her fruit is great.
Dad planted the tree when Mum was pregnant with me – she was craving mulberries – and despite receiving little care over the last 29 years, she has really flourished.
I’ve always loved this tree. When I was little I used to climb it’s branches and rest in them with a book. She housed my snail collection, my worm collection (I don’t know why I put worms in the tree. I’m sorry, worms.) and my diary until it got rained on.
I would always be the first one to know when the mulberries would be ready to pick. Not only because I kept a close eye on her, but because of my birth mark. I have a mulberry on my right thigh. It’s pretty pale pink all year round, but for one week in spring, it turns red. I kid you not, my birth mark gets it right every year. Mum used to call it my “toota” (mulberry in Arabic), and we’d stand at the tree picking berries for much of the Spring holidays. True story.
I loved my tree so much, I always hoped my children would have a mulberry tree to enjoy. And guess what’s in the backyard of the manse?
A mulberry tree.
She’s not as big as my mulberry tree at Dad’s – her trunk is skinny, her leaves are pale and her fruit isn’t as sweet and juicy. But mulberries are mulberries and sentimental memories can still be as sweet in inferior realities.
Little Girl loves our tree. She sees it through the window of our sunroom, and waits at the door (not always patiently) for us to let her out and pick berries. It’s still too early in Spring, and we’ve only been able to reach a few ripe ones (not enough!) so she nibbled on the green ones.
As we spend our afternoons picking berries, I tell her about my Mum, and her love of mulberries, and one day, I’ll show her my birthmark when it turns red and drive down to Sydney to pick mulberries off the tree at Dad’s.
All we’re doing is writing a new page of family history which has etched on it the memories of the past.