The Bonsai

The Bonsai

The cypress, a single straight trunk, was on a stool. Dry wrinkled hands caressed the knobby leaves of the evergreen like a barber would the hair before the trimming, dirt clad fingers gingerly tested the branches bent into desired shapes with copper wire, aged eyes searched for creatures that would harm his tree. Finding nothing amiss, Hanzo picked up the shears and began snipping. The old man hardly ever did any shaping or cutting, it was more for the ritual and the pleasant sound of shears clacking. Hanzo gripped the edge of the pot and turned it, admiring the tree from every angle, then stood with slight pain to lift the pot to its honored place in the garden.

Though raising bonsai was only a hobby, this tree was his life’s work. Its name was Eternal Spirit. Only one limb was his addition, for the tree was very old, everything else was the craft of his ancestors. History; his hands were the seventh to shape it. The old man knew his would be the last.

His wife, may the Merciful Buddha resurrect her to a gentler life, had borne only one daughter, and she preferred flowers, showing no interest in bonsai. His daughter had a son, Tony; six years, grandfather and grandson fashioned a friendship, then his American son-in-law took his family to America. Five years later, his daughter returned with the boy, his son-in-law having passed away. Those five years had gone swiftly for the old man, but was half a lifetime for the boy. Tony was not the child the old man had known. The boy had forgotten the language, and though it came back remarkably quickly, the first two months were awkward and led to misunderstanding and a regrettable incident.

The memory was as clear as a dream. The family was having a larger house built on the property. He was with his wife and the boy, inspecting the work before the carpenters arrived. On the living room floor was a stain. Tony had been playing here the day before.

The old man pointed to the floor, accused and scolded the boy for making the stain. The boy denied everything vehemently. As the old man shouted his accusations over and over, his wife stepped between them. The boy lost his temper, raised himself to his full height and leaned forward. That pushed his grandfather over the edge. Enraged, he struck the boy. Yet, the boy surprised him and took a step forward. His grandmother blocked him. The man struck again. Frustrated, the boy broke down and cried.

The boy’s father had been a generation and a culture apart. Whereas the younger man had been gentle to his children, the older man came from a time when children were physically punished for the slightest reason. His grandson didn’t know, hadn’t been taught, his place. And so, though later the old man realized his error, he could not apologize.

The boy eventually forgave him, yet a shield had been created. The old man tried to overcome the barrier. He had taken him fishing, for long ago he had been a fisherman. At first, his grandson had been excited at catching a fish, had asked to go again. For his next birthday, he had given him a handmade rod. That’s when Hanzo learned another disturbing fact; the lack of respect for handcraft. His generation believed a craftsman embedded a part of his soul into the making, and thus the owner revered the creation; not so his grandson. The rod was soon covered in scars and dirt that looked like scabs to Hanzo’s eyes. Even so, he hadn’t scolded the boy, only mentioned the fact. And, the boy had only tilted his head in bewilderment.

The boy often watched his grandfather working in the garden and the old man hoped that the seed of curiosity would grow into an interest in keeping the family tradition, but the seed did not break the soil. Yet, Hanzo could not blame the boy, now a young man, for how could bonsai compete against the lure of video games and the internet?

Ever did the young yearn for fame and meaning, yet no one dream united them. His generation had had a devastating war, had risen to the challenge of rebuilding a country and won unbelievable prosperity. Proud of their accomplishments, Hanzo, like many of his generation, clung to the past. Technology was moving too fast, he had tried to keep pace, had even bought a computer and linked to the internet. It just left him feeling alien to the culture.

The old man could share his experience and beliefs with his grandson, yet his words couldn’t form a glue, much less conjure a bridge that could cross the chasm between them. No doubt, he thought, it would be the same if his grandson truly tried to make him comprehend his own young generation.

In winter, Hanzo had an operation. Though it was a success, he felt the colors of the world had faded. His candle was nearly gone, the flame weaker though not yet flickering. As he gazed at Eternal Spirit, he asked himself what would happen to the tree of his family? With no one to properly take care of it, the tree would suffer maybe even perish. He wouldn’t be able to face his ancestors if that happened. What could he do? Selling it was unthinkable. Donating it to the local bonsai society was possible, yet he hated handing his responsibility to a group of acquaintances, for there would be no way to repay them. Hanzo decided there was no other option than to take the tree back to where it had come from.

Hanzo’s ancestor had dug it up as a sapling in the heights of Hakone more than two hundred years ago. An hour and a half train ride to the foot of the mountains, a further half hour ride up, then a cable car ride, and finally some hiking, the old man could still do it. He had a backpack, he could fashion a frame inside for the tree. Without the pot and most of the soil, the tree would weigh little.

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Hanzo's woolen clad legs were crossed, his back leaning against the broad trunk of a tree as he sat on his backpack. Eternal Spirit was beside him not yet planted. He was regretting his decision to continue up the mountain. He should have turned back at the first drizzle of changing weather. Later, the fog had come too fast to make it safely back. The old man zippered his jacket all the way up, and wrapped his arms around himself, wishing he had brought his woolen scarf. His eyes closed. Soon, he was asleep.

Hanzo heard the rustle of leaves and squinted into the milky haze. A man was wearing a straw hat tied under his chin. He had a rough straw jacket on over a thick blue shirt tucked into pants that ended at his knees. He wore flat-soled shoes also made of straw. Hanzo called out, but the man made no response as he planted each step firmly into the yielding soil. The old man, with one hand on the trunk, grunted as he rose to chase the strangely clad man. Though the stranger proceeded slowly up the slope, the old man soon tired. Bending down with his hands on his knees, the old man cursed his aged body. He called out again, yet the man pressed forward. Hanzo rose and hobbled after the man who seemed hard of hearing. Finally, out of breath with vision blurring, he croaked out a weak hello. The old man let out a sigh of gratitude, for the man had stopped and was kneeling.

Hanzo approached while talking so as not to frighten the stranger, yet there was no reaction. Thinking the man was deaf; he circled to the side. That’s when he saw what the man was doing. He was digging out a cypress not more than two years old. The old man circled to the front, yet the man was oblivious. With trembling hand, Hanzo reached out to touch the man’s shoulder. It went straight through. The old man lost what little strength his legs had. He fell on his haunches. His eyes bulged as he as the tree was extracted from the soil, wrapped in moist cloth, then placed in a backpack. The stranger rose and walked downhill, disappearing into the mist.

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The forest ranger, a sturdy young man, found Hanzo sitting under a tree, his eyes closed with a smile on his lips. The ranger spoke softly at first then raised his voice before placing a finger on the wrinkled neck. No pulse caressed the skin. His eyes roamed up the slope. A scoop was lying next to a miniature tree.

The ranger climbed the short distance. The bonsai looked timid among its towering kin; so small, yet older than all the rest. He placed his hands on the earth around the trunk, and pushed the tree a little further in, then stood up and returned to the body.

The ranger lifted the old man unto his back and as he walked down the trail he spoke, “Thank you for returning the tree. It’s our tree, now. Yours and mine. You needn’t worry. I’ll do all I can to let it grow as tall and wide as it likes. So, travel in peace wherever your karma sends you and may we meet again.”