Hangzhou Botanical Garden

Early morning, exercising in a corner of the botanical garden.

From afar, I saw an elder lady walking around each tree on the path. She seemed to be looking for something, holding a small bunch of various leaves and branches. Gathering herbs, maybe?

I kept stretching and moving. Soon, she came to the tree in front of me. She looked about seventy.

“Young man, do you know what this tree is called?”

I walked over. Flat, yellow-green pods dangled among the fresh green leaves.

“I think it’s a Chinese honeylocust. I remember it from my primary school textbook.”

“No, the honeylocust’s pods are somewhat round.”

“Well, then I’m not sure,” I said. “What’s your reason for collecting these?”

“I just like them, just looking.”

“So you take them home to look at?” I asked. “Do you come here often?”

“I come here a lot.”

“Then you must know most of the trees here?”

“I suppose so, but I quickly forget again. Memory’s not what it used to be. The seasons change, and so do the trees. Like these leaves, the pods are here in summer, but by fall they change again…”

I didn’t ask further, even though I really wanted to ask:

Since you forget every year, why search again each time? Especially at your age, does it mean anything to search anew after forgetting?

That question feels too deep, and too harsh. Yet it’s simple, and real.

Another subtle truth touched me: I always thought I loved plants, but honestly, for most, I’ve never come close. I just watch them from a distance.