Peace Tree from Hiroshima. Sandra Moore K.
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I was born nearly four hundred years ago on the island of Miyajima. As I pushed up through the dirt, I saw my reflection in the mountain lake. A forest of tall trees surrounded me: cedar, greenwillow, and hinoki. Macaques, momongas, and bats darted between their leaves and limbs.
One morning, as the summer sun beat down, I saw a man. Alone, with a basket strapped to his back, he spoke to the beautiful trees. Later I would learn his name: Itaro.
“I must bring back a souvenir of this island, of the trees that touched my heart,” said Itaro. Then he did something that changed my life forever.
He carefully dug around my roots, gently picked up my small pine branches, and wrapped me in a cloth, wet from a nearby stream. Soon, I was his companion on the mountain trail, leaving the forest behind.
Itaro’s house seemed strangely quiet at first. I missed the gentle rain on my branches and the monkeys squawking high in the leaf canopy. But I grew to like my new home and the ceramic pot in which I was planted. For over fifty years Itaro watered me and pruned my branches, shaping me like a sculptor into a miniature bonsai tree.
“You remind me of the magical island I visited,” said Itaro, his hair now white with age. “That’s why I called you Miyajima.”
When Itaro died, his son Wajiro looked after me. And when Wajiro needed a cane to help him walk, he taught his son Somegoro how to care for me.
For three hundred years, the job of watching over me was passed down from father to son.
When our family moved to Hiroshima, it was Masaru who looked after me. He added more bonsai to our household. Beech, black pine, and blue juniper trees joined me on the porch.
In 1945, something terrible happened. A war raged in Asia, and Hiroshima was hit by an atomic bomb. It exploded two miles from my house.
Many, many people were hurt or killed, and most buildings were reduced to rubble.
Our family was fortunate. Though our windows were shattered, we were injured only a little by the flying glass. Masaru dropped to his knees and bowed, as a sign of gratitude. I, too, felt like bowing, as my friend was unharmed.
For several years, everyone in Hiroshima suffered terribly. But slowly, Masaru returned to his daily bonsai care: watering and pruning, wiring and shaping. And as we revived, his heavy heart became lighter.
And slowly the people began to rebuild. In ten years, our city had new streets, sidewalks, and spirit. Just miles from our porch, the Peace Memorial Park opened its gates.
Twenty years later, the classrooms were once again teeming with children, and the fields were full of cosmos flowers.
Then, thirty years after the war, my life took the most surprising turn of all.
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