Old Wu's Locust Tree

Old Wu had lived in Locust Lane for sixty years.

The lane was narrow; two people passing had to turn sideways. The old houses crowded together, eaves nearly touching eaves, so on rainy days the neighbor across could pass a bottle of soy sauce without stepping out. At the foot of Old Wu's wall stood a locust tree he had planted the year he married. Now as thick as a bowl, half its branches reached over the wall, and in summer it shaded half the lane.

That spring, a red notice went up at the lane's mouth: Locust Lane was included in the old-town renewal, to be cleared within three months.

Neighbors left one by one. Old Zheng, who ran the corner shop, was first to go; at parting he pressed a pack of cigarettes into Old Wu's hand and said, Old Wu, forgive me, I'm off to comfort. Sister Zhang next door, who minded the children, moved to her daughter's, waving goodbye with a great-grandchild in her arms. In less than two months, Old Wu was the only one left in the lane.

His son had bought an elevator flat in the new district and had urged him for half a year. Dad, the keys are ready, a south-facing room; the locust won't move with you, so I'll put a pot of flowers on the balcony. Old Wu said, wait a bit longer.

Wait for what? The son thought he was holding out for more compensation. He wasn't. Old Wu himself couldn't have said why. Every morning he rose and went first to touch that locust tree, its bark coarse as his late wife's hand — the year she died she had leaned against it for her last breath, her hand still on the trunk. Each year when the locust bloomed he stood beneath it and breathed the sweet scent, as if she were still there.

It wasn't that he couldn't live without the house. His passbook held money, and his son was good to him. But the lane held a whole life: his son had learned to walk there, his wife had hung washing there all her days, the neighbors' cooking smells had drifted over the wall. Tear down the wall, and there was nowhere to put any of it.

In the last week before the deadline, the young man from the demolition office came again, politely urging. Old Wu pointed at the locust. The tree I won't stand in your way over, he said, but I need to say goodbye to it. The young man said, sir, the tree belongs to the parks bureau, they may not keep it. Old Wu nodded, and said nothing.

Those nights Old Wu could not sleep. He took his phone and filmed the locust from root to tip, then the wall, the threshold, the cane chair his wife had always sat in. When he was done he set it as his wallpaper.

On the last day, Old Wu handed the keys to the demolition office and turned to go. At the lane's mouth he looked back once. The locust was still there, its leaves rattling in the wind, as if answering him. He raised a hand, did not wave, and left.

The new flat was on the eighteenth floor, south-facing, bright. His son had put a pothos on the balcony. Old Wu watered it daily, yet always found himself looking down — below was the road, no tree, no lane. He changed his phone wallpaper and changed it back, and in the end kept the locust.

Once the son saw it and said, Dad, if you miss it, we can drive back to the old town this weekend. Old Wu said, miss what, it's all flat. Yet the next weekend the son did drive him there. Locust Lane was gone, an empty lot, machines parked in the distance. Only the locust still stood, alone, circled by green mesh.

The son wondered aloud why the tree hadn't been cut. Old Wu said, the parks bureau, probably. He walked over and laid his hand on the trunk again. Wind passed, and locust blossoms fell into his hair. He suddenly felt his wife was still there, the lane was still there, only moved into his heart.

On the way back, Old Wu told his son, that pothos, move it indoors; on the balcony I just need a cane chair. The son agreed.

Old Wu thought, houses are torn down, trees are kept and then age. What truly stays was never brick, but the things hung on the tree that no one can see.