Some time back, near the train platform in our small town, the highway department planted a grove of trees. They are non-fruiting plum trees. They were planted in straight lines and seemed far too close together. I was sure that these little trees would never last. They looked as if they were in an island of loneliness where no one would look after them.

Yet, come the first spring, they were still there and flourishing. Years have passed and not one of them has died and they all perform their same ritual of blossoming and shedding each year. Noticing this pattern, I started to feel empathy for these “ladies.” I had decided by then that they were ladies. Why? Well, they put on their best finery every spring. They cover themselves with light pink blossoms but then, by May, their blossoms have fallen off and they are wearing the dark plum-coloured leaves that they will have through summer and into the fall. Come winter, they will lose their leaves and stand barren until the next spring. Year in and year out, the pattern never varies.

Then, one day I realized something about these ladies. Their dusky leaves look a lot like changeable silk taffeta. This fabric was very popular around the 1860s. It shines and appears to change colour as the garment moves. It comes in many colours, but around the time of the Civil War it came in a grey and a plum colour that were particularly popular. The ladies, I decided, were women who were waiting for their men to come home from the war. They get their hopes up every spring and wait by the train platform in their best pink finery. But, as April fades into May, and their soldiers don’t return; their pretty pink gowns are discarded. They put on their widows weeds of plum-coloured leaves. As winter approaches, with all hope gone, they stand there ragged. The rains come and go, the winter winds press against their limbs, and the widows keep their vigil.

Why Gaithersburg? Because it was a crossroads during the Civil War. Many a Confederate soldier left there, never to return. So, these are the widows of Gaithersburg. A small town still, no longer just a crossroads; but these widows with no fruit borne, await their Johnny Reb’s return and change their clothes as their hopes rise and fade.

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)