You passed the summers of 2008 and 2009 in Northern Michigan picking cherries for your grandfather. Rising at six with the sun, picking until noon and then until dark, enjoying all the nooks and crannies the vast Lake Michigan has to offer. Although it was sad that his inevitable weakening separated your shared morning routine—at the ripe age of 12—these hours in isolation amongst the cherries formed you into the man you are today. A loved and loving man of course, but more importantly, a man whose dreams possess a clarity that his waking recollections could never attain, as if memory is more properly in conversation with sleep than with consciousness. And it is this exceptionally flawed and brilliant quality of yours that gave us no other option but to write you this letter.
At breakfast you were repeatedly shown handfuls of cherries and trained to select the most divine. This was then followed by the daily masterclass in removal of the cherry from the tree. You mirrored your grandfather's silent teaching method as his dominant hand—now inseparable in memory from the bruising that finally surrounded him—approached the cherry gracefully, ornamenting upon an invisible line. If you had known then of your current love for studying the elegant signatures of historical figures, you might have made the comparison. The clamp echoed by the support of the branch from the non-dominant hand synchronized with an ease that could only come from decades with the stone fruit. And the final twist and removal of the gem itself was so effortless that its prior ancestors and future offspring were only graced with the comfort that they were in the right hand. This lesson would then be repeated ad infinitum around the thirteen pink trees which surrounded the typically bright, flat, and boxy middle American field in an almost perfect clock-like circle.
But as a confident boy who felt complete control over momentary outcomes, when alone in the fields you simply pursued a nice red and ensured no hidden green or brown. Most likely unable to recognize it at the time, you did feel guilt for not following the precision of his tutorials, but it wasn't until your grandfather passed that you finally understood what you had failed to grasp in his presence: his meticulous attention to detail and pursuit of perfection were not mere habits but a virtue, a way of asserting meaning against the fundamental nothingness that underlies all things. You supposed things were done best in the most carefree way, avoiding any analytics connected to the cherry, but we are thrilled to say, you now understand.
Yes this perverse symmetry—thirteen trees circling the field in near-perfect geometry—did more than create the illusion of a simple life for you and your family; it also imprisoned many Droorzns in an eternal thoughtloop, though yours, William, is quite distinct, and even resolvable, and this is another reason we had to write you this letter. There was one tree that somehow, no matter where you positioned yourself, always felt as the one directly behind. You tried spinning in circles, lying at various angles, walking around the trees, and climbing up them. You even tried doing headstands. Could it be the contrasting circular and boxed nature of the field that creates this illusion, or is it simply a natural inclination to always associate one part of an image as the center? Could it also be that as a result of your particular state of consciousness you have some heightened awareness of the unseen? Perhaps all of these explanations are true, or perhaps more stochastically, the tree itself insists on centrality through some quality we lack the geometry to name.
Now you must recall, upon hearing of your grandfather's death, you took an afternoon nap and dreamt that your grandfather was embodied in a tree. Not in the way of symbolism or spirit—the tree and your grandfather were simply one. The tree itself however was seemingly far from those you have decayed in your memory of the summers in Michigan. The roots spread austerely through the earth and it was dark in nature, as if amongst a forest during a rainstorm at dusk. Although you had remorse over the way you and your grandfather's relationship ended, this melancholic tree still emitted warmth, albeit in the absence of the pink shimmering of the cherry trees.
Feeling the need to grasp this fleeting moment, you asked your grandfather a question that emerged with the exhilaration of the short-lived moment. “Why is it,” you began, with quick nervousness, “how could it be that your cherry field has been the predominant location for my dreams my entire life, and only now, are you also a character in my dream?”
He smiled widely, and the melancholic tree leaned closer. The branch caressed your shoulder and agreed that if you persisted with patience and conserved assumptions influenced by emotional ruptures, he would attempt to answer your question. And thus, in his usually scattered yet calculated and deliberate yet circular way of talking he began to explain the history of the cherry field and why now the circumstances were to be quite different.
Here it is where it is most important for us to refine your memory. With regret that the momentary encounter faded so abruptly you woke with annoyance at your grandfather's lack of emotional investment in the story. Left in a state of vain, you now had more questions, but questions rooted in irritation as opposed to curiosity. How could it be that he didn't see any meaning in the cherries, that he dreaded every cherry season, and most importantly, that those summer mornings were not spent in Northern Michigan picking cherries but on the almost exact opposite point of earth picking peas on the Western Coast of Australia during wintertime.
“And what about the peas then?” you rushed to ask at the very last moment, but then he was irretrievable and it was just you and the tree.
Now, decades later, as this story was on the brink of breaking through your shield of repression, we decided to inform you of it all. And now when you find yourself on a train in Western Australia on the eve of your 30th cycle around the earth, please bring with you this letter, and the reasons you are there might be slightly more understandable.
And of course, here is the poem—so beautiful in your own way—which you will then write looking out the window from your private train car at the moment when you will ultimately decide to stop hiding.
This letter was jointly written by the chief of staff and probate office of the Gates of Horn and Ivory to inform, confirm, and attempt to resolve your death at the age of 30 on January 3rd 2027 in Carrarang Australia. Mr. William Droorzn, sincerest regards and may you and your memory forever be for a blessing.