Locas

The branch snapped without breaking, like a fire fueled by dry wood. Some leaves tumbled to the ground, lacking their usual weightlessness. Anthony lost count.
He lost his place more than usual today. He remembered he had reached at 63 at the end of the last branch, so he could start at the beginning of that one. Usually, the count of loquats was all that was in his head, but today something distracted him. How slippery it is, the solace of a daily routine.
Since yesterday, there were four more of the green fruits in this branch. Some days, that mattered. Today, he wanted only to finish the count, and begin picking. He could not think why.
On the second branch from the top, the yellowy sheen of the loquats dulled a little, and the tree started to pour out water, just like the sweat that poured from Anthony’s skin all through his counting. Wet one way, or soaked another. It was all just water. His right foot moved a little to get a better grip on the branch. His white sneaker squeaked a little on the wet wood, but it wasn’t enough to stop the count.
When Anthony was done counting, he noticed the water had risen under the tree. The loquats reflected off the undisturbed water. They shined like coins against the gray sky, seeming to stave off the sullen feeling that belies rainfall. Anthony couldn’t get down, so he began to pick the fruit. He rustled the branches when he moved, and looked off-balance, but the tree held him.
The sun came out, and Anthony found himself wet again. The tree jostled a little, as if something had hit it. Anthony thought nothing of it. The air was heavy, and the fruit was slippery. He dropped three, and watched as they plummeted earthward.
He was so focused on the fruit falling down that he didn’t see the brown mane of hair that had walked below the tree. One of the loquats plummeted straight into it, and bounced off sideways toward the street.
“Watch out, mister!” His warning came only as the loquat was bouncing on the ground, misshapen and softened after its fall.
Water sprayed as the man shook his head. Anthony only heard him grumble.
As he reached to grab a fruit on the branch below, Anthony saw the man’s bare feet, splayed before him. He wasn’t used to company at the tree. The man stank of rain and sweat. He knew the odor well, from his father, overpowering the smell of one of Mama’s meals. Now, it overtook the smell of the blooming loquats -- the only thing he ever had to bring home. He called them his locas.
The smell didn’t go away as he kept picking. He climbed down to talk to his visitor.
“Why you here?” he asked as he stood on the bottom branch above the man. Anthony noticed he was eating a loquat.
“Fruit’s good,” the man said to him.
Anthony wanted to look at him. He jumped down with the loquats wrapped in his shirt.
“Gonna be better in Mama’s jelly.”
As he looked up, starting to think of his return climb, Anthony was holding the loquats tight in his shirt. A jolt sent them flying toward the ground. Some were smashed, and some were soggy. The work of the day lying in a mess around him.
He started to pick them up, and noticed that the man was doing the same.
“I picked ‘em all!” he yelled.
The man put a handful in his pocket. The next time Anthony looked up, his visitor was a dot on the the sidewalk, crossing the street.
The man walked toward a group on the other side of the street.
He saw the man point in his direction and give one of the fruits to a lady in a worn hat. The wind blew just right so he could hear:
“Everyone here is so generous.”