Sean lingered at the edge of the road where cracked asphalt dissolved into the gravel of the derelict property. With her backpack hiked high on one shoulder, straps digging into her skin with each movement, she shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, toes forced to be friendly in her too-tight shoes, sliding together like siblings in a cramped backseat. She stared longingly at the big yard. Weeds clambering one on top of the other; tiny yellow flowers nestled into their vines. Proof that even ugly things hold beauty. Sean’s eyes drew a path through the thick foliage directly to the rotten stump. She had to see it one last time. The sentinel of an era. Once mighty. Overlooking an abode that held titans of matriarchy. She could still hear the leaves brushing against the clapboard rooftop, of a sanctuary that took too long to build. Like hands spread wide over paper waiting to be traced. The gnarled roots had long since forgotten their origin and wrapped firmly around the foundation of the green house. It seemingly held the home in place.

The dense humidity of the island afternoon clung to Sean like a barrel drum in an engine room. It reminded her of summer days spent harassing this tree, her family’s oldest ancestor. The sweat washed over her now as it had back then when she would hold hands with her cousins in a ring play circle. It took ten of them to complete a chain around the mammoth trunk and even then their tiny chests would accidentally rub against the rough bark. Her cousins were rough too, in words and action. When the tides of play turned to squabbling and their games soured, the canopy of broad veiny leaves cast a wide enough shadow for each faction to have their own corner. When the scuffles got too wild, an only child, soft in both appearance and demeanor, Sean would hear the voice of her grandmother carry from the kitchen window, a branch growing precariously over its sill, “Come inside baby.”

The tree held no grudges. Even when the children of the neighborhood —kinfolk—had forgotten the artform of a barefoot climb to the top for its fruit. It did hold secrets though. Damp moss crawled up the tree’s base and captured these stories. Folding them into its husks and whispering lore for the tree to store deep within itself. Ninety years and thirty feet later, in all that time, what would it say? Should you press an ear to its hull, what might the bitter sap speak? No one could pinpoint when the nectar of the tree’s hard earned bounty became tart, but Sean always thought Uncle Michael was to blame.

Pompous and headstrong, Uncle Michael owned a new-to-him Volvo, “Chantily lace is the shade,” he said. He was too good for the old rocky road, he told them so. Yet, when life came at him fast, and the well of his wealth ran dry, the yard was the only place to welcome him with folded arms and “I told you so” harrumphs. The car, alongside his status, died.

Standing there in that cemetery of a yard, with barely a breath, Sean could almost see the luxury white vehicle under the shade of the tree branches. Uncle Michael insisted it could be fixed, it was too good to sell. The rats eventually made it their home.

The day Aunt Shelly had the two-thousand-pound paper weight hauled away, angry bellowing could be heard throughout the entire community. Sean could remember Michael’s red face. Two green veins in the crest of his brow, swelling like rivers threatening to overflow. Sean recalled his bitter words. “You drunk!” he spat her way, “Drunken, jungaliss slut!”, he slurred. Though Michael’s words had long since lost their sting, they still echoed across the lot, carried more by memory than malice.

“Mike, come inside for some souse,” A keen eye for broken things, It was her grandmother— Beryl, who diffused the tension that afternoon. That day, the branches of the fig tree seemed to recoil. Curling in on themselves, as if looking for an escape. The thick trunk had been an innocent bystander to a family that didn’t always like each other but loved one another all the same. Or so it thought.

If the rings in its wood could be pressed into vinyl it would spin to the soundtrack of 1960s freedom, 1970s redemption, 1980s riches, and the heartache of the noughties. A melody woven together by resilience, its scratches and skips the hallmark of lives lived unevenly, etched forever into this family’s gramophone.

For all her sage words and good deeds, there was no wake for the matriarch of this yard. The hymns had been hurriedly sung in the chaos of a pandemic. Those who loved the matriarch said their final goodbyes through grainy screens and silent whimpers.

No one would dare be as happy as the woman whose grave she couldn’t bring herself to visit. The one woman who made her feel confident in all that she did. The matriarch assured her that she wouldn’t just match Michael’s temporary success; she would surpass and outshine him in every single way. “You’ne need nobody else to claim you but God.” Beryl had whispered these words to her one balmy night on the front porch—The night her father left. “He have good things in store for you. Just wait.” Sean fought against everything she had known about the world up until that point. Deep down, she knew her grammy would never lie. Not to her. Her grandmother was an avid churchgoer, one mass each day and two on Sundays. Our Lady’s Catholic Church on the corner of East and Devauex Street knew never to start the organs until Beryl walked through the doors.

Sean’s nose burned with the threat of tears as she stared at the chipped paint of the family home. She swallowed a sob as she took in the stump next to it. Her fingers dug into her palms, picking at calloused skin until it bled.

The roots that once cut through limestone, now laid bereft, sunken to the side, and hopeless in exhaustion. A generation—two, three —gone. In its wake? Uncle Michael’s rats, skittering with impunity across a yard that was once capable of great things.

The fig tree was gone. They cut it down and there was no reason for her to return.

Sean turned her back to the barren land.