My uncle has a mature and beautiful gingko tree, which also goes by the name of memory tree, which is a little ironic because he can’t remember where he put his hearing aid batteries, and yet he can recollect with pin-sharp detail the exact moment this tree’s predecessor was confiscated by a customs official on the way back from the unnamed country he was smuggling it in from.
“Smuggling” was a large and entirely wrong word for a tiny sapling that wasn’t harming anyone, he said, but they took it off him anyway and destroyed it, a decades-old outrage that felt pretty fresh. I’m a little hazy on how the current tree came to arrive in his garden, whether that first one was a decoy and he was packing two trees, but let’s just say that couldn’t possibly have happened because this definitely isn’t the same uncle who brought seven varieties of seed potato back from a family wedding in Germany in 1985, by putting them in my and my siblings’ pockets, because what kind of customs monster would search a child?
