A small, almost unnoticeable bloom on a plane tree brings back memories of my father, a house long gone, and a quiet question about what it means for a living thing to find its place.
The flowers of the plane tree (Platanus) have begun to bloom.
They are so small that it is hard to tell whether they are flowers or still buds, but they are probably flowers.
It has been about five years since the tree was transplanted from my father’s vacation home to our garden.
In the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, my father passed away. Unable to maintain the property, my mother decided to sell the house. At that time, she asked me:
“This tree was given to your father as a descendant of the tree of Hippocrates. Could you take care of it?”
That is how I came to accept it.
At first, I was surprised by the sheer number of its large leaves. But over time, I have grown accustomed to them.
This winter, my wife noticed that it had borne fruit.
They were small and charming—perfect, I thought, for decorating a Christmas wreath. I hadn’t even known that plane trees produced fruit. Perhaps this means the tree has finally settled into its new home. I look forward to observing its flowers properly this year.
The “tree of Hippocrates” is said to be the very tree under which the great physician Hippocrates taught his disciples. Saplings from that tree have been propagated around the world, and one of them eventually came into my father’s hands.
Receiving such a large tree is not simple—one must have space to plant it. My father struggled with what to do and initially considered donating it to the general hospital where he had worked for many years. But the offer was politely declined.
With no better option, he planted it at his vacation home. Yet no one lives longer than a tree, and so it has now come to us.
Across Japan, many Somei Yoshino cherry trees planted during the period of rapid economic growth have grown old, and reports of fallen trees are becoming more frequent.
It is unfortunate, and somehow it seems to mirror the gradual decline of Japan’s economy. In Kamakura as well, many cherry trees have aged—some have had their upper branches cut, others have been felled entirely. It is a painful sight.
Cherry trees are said to live for 60 to 80 years. If that is true, then by the time I die, most of the cherry trees around here—except for the recently replanted ones along Dankazura—will likely be gone.
Plane trees, on the other hand, seem to live much longer. This tree will probably outlive me by far.
Thanks in part to my wife’s yearly efforts to protect it from wood-boring insects, it has managed to survive.
Still, I sometimes wonder—having come to live with us, is this tree truly happy?
Of course, I hope it is.
What will happen to it after I am gone is not something I can control.
But trees, too, have their own lives.
I only hope it will be allowed to live out its natural span.
All I can do is hope that it will be allowed to live out its natural life.
