It’s funny how people sometimes name things that are not

like in my grandmother’s grange with that lone tree they said

it was a cherry. Never have I seen it in full bloom like those

from old Japanese cartoons, so it was hard to deny it was

not a real cherry tree. My sensorial memory was not that

reliable either, having not tasted the fruit, except for those

sugary shining deep red sweets which used to come on top of

sweet pies or birthday cakes, which for me were cherries. Kids

are usually fooled by their parents, but I wonder if perhaps

nowadays birthday cakes have real cherries on top of them,

maybe they’re healthier, maybe they make them vegan,

with a fresh ripe cherry on top. Yet I still cannot affirm if

the tree near the corn fields which I could see from the large

wooden windows in that lone living room in the house

of my mother’s mother was indeed a cherry tree. I could now

ask her to pick some when they’re ripe and wait for her call telling me

to visit her to eat what they call cherry there. I could now certify if its

taste is really of a real cherry, having now eaten deep red ripe ones

from the local market. If they’ve been right this whole time, I could

write on a small wooden board, certificating the tree’s true species.

It’d be just great to name this fake cherry tree which is now dead.