A row of tree
A row of giant ginkgo trees lined one side of the path that climbed the
hill. Halfway up a narrow stone stairway led off to one side, down past a
row of houses. The Soeda family’s was the third in the row.
Soeda returned home from work at dusk on November thirtieth, and
seeing the faces of his wife and daughter in the entryway, immediately
asked them, “Have you noticed that half the ginkgo trees are bare?’’
By “ginkgo trees” it was clear that he meant the row of trees on the path,
but of course the words he had used conveyed little else, so he continued.
“I noticed on my way to work this morning, and let me tell you it gave
me a shock. The ginkgos from the foot of the path all the way up to the area
around our house are completely bare. But the trees from the middle up are
still full of leaves.”
“Really? I hadn’t even noticed,” said his daughter. His wife’s eyes said,
“Is that so?’
“I wonder how it happened. Only the bottom half of the row is bare.”
“And to think we haven’t noticed. Shall we walk up and take a look?” his
daughter asked her mother.
“It’s dark already. Besides, you can see them from the second floor.”
“Yes, that’s true isn’t it.” His wife nodded. “You’d think we’d see them
every day from upstairs. I can’t believe we haven’t noticed. . . “
“Yeah, exactly. You ought to see them but you don’t. ’
Soeda changed from his street clothes into the more comfortable clothes
he wore around the house. It occurred to him as he did that the emotion he
had felt that morning—the sense that he had made a discovery—wasn’t
quite as infectious as he had thought. His wife didn’t seem at all excited.
