The Cherry Tree and The Mynci at Christmas

     It had stood, proud and stable, in this field for hundreds of years. Perhaps thousands. The large, twisted bark seemed to stretch beyond normal capability, the roots underneath the ground no doubt reaching far beyond this area into areas unknown. Towards the middle, some Petpet or another had created a cavernous entrance inside, a hole too small for any Neopet to fit through, and likely had created a home within. This, too, was disappearing. There were no cherry blossoms in sight, for it was now winter, the Month of Celebrating’s icy grip on the world strong and holding fast, but once upon a time, in the summer, the branches would grow pink and lush and spread happiness all around.

     There was not much Marguerite, an Elderly Mynci, found worth celebrating in this month at the best of times, and this year seemed determined to only enforce further how isolated she was from the rest of the world. Where most Neopets excitedly came together on the 25th day of this month, she had spent year after year alone in her little home on the outskirts of the Shenkuu mountain range, her only solace the view from her window of that cherry tree.

     Now they were even taking this away. But that was the way of things these days. It was true the cherry tree had not blossomed for more than thirty years now – in fact, the local children called it a cherry tree with a heavy dose of sarcasm, as if the whole thing was a farce made up by the old folk to convince them it was more special than it was – but Marguerite could clearly remember her days of youth, when the sun seemed to shine for longer and she’d dance and laugh amidst blossoms that had fallen from that cherry tree.

     She had friends then. Family. And her Christmases were traditional. All would gather in her ramshackle home, because even though it was small in size it mattered not when it was full of warmth and love, and they would sing songs and cook a Christmas dinner worthy of Chef Bonju. She had a wife, then – Bronwyn, the most beautiful Gnorbu in the kingdom – and she had her brothers and sisters, her parents, Bronwyn’s side of the family, and all their friends, and oh how fast these holidays would go. How she looked forward to each Month of Celebrating because everyone would be together again.

     Well. It was just her now, wasn’t it? Had been almost as long as that cherry tree had stopped blossoming. That should have been the first sign, she realised, that first year Bronwyn pointed out to her that this was the first summer without blossoms, that perhaps something had gone wrong.

     She had assured her – no, it was just a bad year. A mistake. Perhaps the tree had hibernated incorrectly. In any case, things would be back to normal the following summer.

     But the following summer came, and there were no cherry blossoms, and there was no Bronwyn either.

     Funny how such a thing changes you. She thought she was strong. Myncis are typically daring and cheeky and wild – all the things Bronwyn loved about her. She thought she would show Neopia she was still the same Mynci they all knew and loved and depended on. She would host Christmas again, yes. There would still be holidays without Bronwyn. No, not without – in tribute to. She would still be there. Indeed, Marguerite still had a framed photograph of her on the windowsill, and she glanced down at it now as the workers started powering up their saws to chop down the cherry tree faster.

     But the trouble was she wasn’t the same, and Christmas was irreparably different. And so many started hosting their own Christmases, because they could be more cheerful. Did she resent them for this? Perhaps a little, at first. Which is why she refused to attend. Now, she wishes she had. When you’re old, there aren’t many Neopets left to celebrate with, and stubbornness has prevented her from reaching out to the few who are left.

     Age. It’s a terrible thing. A reward for a life well lived is to decay, to become irrelevant.

     To be chopped down when you still might blossom yet.

     Rage boiled inside of her suddenly, and she slammed down her cup of borovan hot chocolate and marched out of her house. She was in her dressing gown and slippers, and her tail was swishing angrily, and she knew she looked a state, but she didn’t care. She was going to rescue this tree. It was the last truly meaningful connection she had.

     “Excuse me!” she shouted. Her voice was whispery from going unused in her empty house, and she had to repeat herself for the others to hear her over their equipment. “Excuse me!”

     The sawing stopped. Two workers were there, both blue Grarrls in hard hats, both young and sprightly and entirely opposite to her. The closer she was to them the more incensed she became. How could they ever understand her relationship with this tree? They were barely out of school. They could never appreciate something old.

     “Are you okay, ma’am?” one of them asked. “Did we wake you up from your nap or something?”

     It was the middle of the day! The cheek of them!

     “You have no right to be getting rid of this tree!” she snapped. “Stop it this instant! This tree has been here since before you were born, and –”

     “Look, ma’am,” the other said, “we’re not the ones in charge here. We’re just doing our jobs. And we’ve been told this tree has to be cut down. It’s been sick for years apparently, and hasn’t blossomed since, um, folk like yourself were children.”

     “That doesn’t matter,” Marguerite said. “It still deserves its place here. It might blossom again, you don’t know that it won’t.”

     The first blue Grarrl shook her head. “Er – actually, experts have come in and said just that. And the wood is going to be used to create park benches that will be placed here. There’s going to be a plaque for the tree and everything. And a new tree is going to be planted. That way new generations can enjoy this space again for what it used to be, only better.”

     “A new tree?” Marguerite echoed. “Planted here instead?”

     “Yes. Isn’t that great?”

     They really looked at her with wide smiles and expected her to agree. To just be happy that this tree was going to be replaced with a shiny new one and that would be that.

     “I like the old tree,” she said, watching their faces fall. “What’s wrong with old things?”

     “Sometimes they have to make way for new ones,” the second blue Grarrl said. But she looked sad, and offered her claw. “I’m Harmonica, and that’s Daisy. We’re sorry this is upsetting you. But this really is a great new opportunity for this field. It’s become neglected over the years, and the mayor wants to make it a happy place again.”

     Was it not a happy place now? Marguerite looked around her, and it was as if seeing the field through new eyes. Where she always saw it through her window, and thought of past memories, she saw the field as she had back then. Green grass, wildflowers growing freely, Neopets chasing each other and having picnics, balls being thrown in games of catch, the laughter of children. And that glorious cherry tree, pink and full and beautiful, in the centre of it all. But now, she could see the grass was yellow despite the wintery chill, there were no more wildflowers, and the cherry tree truly was old and gnarled and barren. No one was here other than her and Harmonica and Daisy.

     Maybe it really would do the place good to change things.

     But that still didn’t mean she was happy about it. Why did things have to change? Why couldn’t things stay the same?

     No, why couldn’t things go back to how they were thirty years ago, when this cherry blossom was still full of purpose and she and Bronwyn were together?

     She tried to fight the tears that sprang to her eyes, but they disobeyed her and fell down her face anyway. “You’re right. Enjoy…making this a place for the young. It’s not a place for me anymore.”

     And she left, returning to her house and closing the door to the world.

     She had no relevance anymore, just like her beloved tree.

     * * *

     On the 25th, the Day of Giving, she woke up early and stared out of her window.

     It had snowed during the night, covering the neglect and decay of the past thirty years, but it couldn’t cover what had disappeared right in front of her.

     The cherry blossom tree was gone.

     She looked down at the photograph of Bronwyn smiling out at her, and she stroked her paw across the frame.

     “That’s it,” she said to her. “I’m finally all alone.”

     Perhaps you might be hoping, that at this point, there was a knock at the door. That Marguerite would wonder crossly who would dare disturb her on such a day, and she would open it, and Harmonica and Daisy would be there with armfuls of food and gifts and tell her that she wasn’t alone anymore, that they had come to be with her at Christmas, that they would be her new friends. Marguerite would try to refuse at first, insist she was fine by herself, but they would wear her down. They’d have a glorious day and finally, Marguerite would feel like she belonged in this world again.

     That would be a happy Christmas story.

     This is not one of those.

     Harmonica and Daisy had a wonderful Christmas with their families, their work done tearing down the cherry blossom tree, and they commented to their relatives that they had met an old Mynci who wished they wouldn’t, that they felt bad about it, but surely she’d see the benefits in the New Year when the new park would be built.

     Marguerite remained alone.

     Perhaps she’d see that new park being built.

     Perhaps she wouldn’t.

     The End.