The Pear Tree That Asked Questions

In Uncle Carlo’s orchard there was a young pear tree, with green pears and shiny leaves.

Leo called it Professor, because every time he passed beneath its branches, a question came to his mind.

“Why are pears narrower at the top?”

A leaf trembled.

“Why do ants walk in a line?”

A branch bent.

“Where does a scent go when no one smells it?”

One night, the pear tree answered.

“Finally, an interesting question.”

Leo jumped. “You can talk?”

“Only with those who truly ask.”

Small glowing labels appeared on the branches. On each there was a question: Why does the Moon change? What does a root feel? How does the wind remember the road?

Leo wanted to read them all at once. He jumped from branch to branch, ran around the trunk, and asked, “Answer! Answer!”

The labels went out.

“What happened?”

“Questions do not like being pushed,” said the pear tree. “They are seeds, not balls.”

Leo sat in the grass.

“Then what should I do?”

“Choose one.”

Leo looked at the labels. He chose a low one: What does a root feel?

The pear tree did not answer immediately.

“Put your hand on the earth.”

Leo obeyed. The earth was cool. After a while he felt a tingling, perhaps an insect, perhaps water, perhaps only his listening becoming larger.

“Does it feel the dark?” he asked.

“It feels support,” answered the pear tree.

Leo stayed silent. It was a slow answer, but he liked it.

In the following days he returned to the pear tree and chose one question at a time. Some had an answer immediately. Others did not. Some changed while he grew.

He understood that curiosity is not filling the air with question marks. It is taking care of a question until it grows roots.

At the end of summer, Leo picked a ripe pear.

“I have a question,” he said.

The pear tree rustled. “I know.”

“Do answers end?”

The pear tree let a leaf fall.

“No. They become larger questions.”

Leo smiled and bit into the pear. It tasted of sun, patience, and question marks.