Ginkgo Leaf
/ˈɡiNGˌkō lēf/
1. (n.) The leaf of the Ginkgo biloba, also known as the maidenhair tree, which is a species of gymnosperm tree native to East Asia. A symbol of longevity and resilience in literature.
When I was five, the crisp air whispered of the coming fall. My dad and I were on our weekly excursion, a light wind nudging us in the direction of the park. I tugged at his arm, urging him to move faster, away from our cramped apartment in Shanghai.
Fifty meters into the park, stone-gray cows lie on a neat grass field protected by a black fence. Around three times the size of an actual cow, the burnished metal statues captivated a horde of kids. As soon as I saw the metal creatures, I cast my dad aside and sprinted towards the fence, crawling underneath and clambering atop the nearest cow. I would stay glued to it for an hour before my dad could pry me away.
2. (n.) a yellow fan growing on a tree.
Example: As we neared the final section of the path, his face brightened as he quickened towards a row of trees. Formerly, their green leaves blended in with the verdance of the park. Today was different. The leaves now beckoned like little yellow fans, glistening in the sun. But I remember looking over my shoulder to see if I could spot the cows.
The leaves brought out the poet in my dad. He started to recite a few lines of a poem. The only part that still lingers is “yin xing ye.” Ginkgo leaf.
“Bie jian di shang de,” my dad told me. Don’t pick the leaves up from the ground. “Zui hao de dou hai mei diao xia lai.” The best ones have not fallen off yet.
“What will we do with the leaves?” I asked.
“Shu qian,” he smiled. They become bookmarks.
My dad hoisted me on his shoulders. I don’t remember if I deliberated long over the array of yellow before my eyes. I do remember that that was the day I pulled my first ginkgo leaf.
I marveled when my dad went first, pulling a golden ginkgo leaf off its branch. He wasn’t one to pry at nature on a whim, so I followed his lead.
Pinch. Twist. Pull.
I relished the sensation of nature crumbling in my fingers. Sandwiching the leaf between my index finger and thumb, I felt its uneven veins press against my fingerprints.
Pulling ginkgo leaves became a tradition. In the fall season, we always returned home with the two best leaves in the park: one for my dad and one for me. As time passed, what started as bookmarks became crusty collections left in drawers. They browned and became forgotten like the other playthings of my childhood.
3. (n.) a brown, wrinkled bookmark.
Example: I was seven when a ginkgo leaf accompanied us on our move to Singapore inside a self-help book. When I opened up the book two years later, I struggled to accept the tragedy before me. The entrapped and suffocated Ginkgo leaf stared at me: dried up and much darker than my memory of it. Thousands more creases in place of the few veins five-year-old me remembered.
I could hear my dad’s voice in the papery whisper the leaf made when I lifted it out of the book. Holding it in my hands brought back a flood of memories. I longed for the vibrant gold of its past.
I silently conceded that it had become just like the leaves that had fallen on the ground, like the ones that didn’t deserve to be bookmarks. Not knowing what to do, I stuffed the book on the bottom shelf where I wouldn’t see it.
4. (n.) a crusty, abandoned relic.
Example: I was twelve when my family moved to Vancouver. But the ginkgo leaf was left behind. My mom had gotten over her love for self-help books and gifted it to her friend. The browned ginkgo leaf was imprisoned inside. Or maybe chucked in the garbage, discarded and forgotten.
But Vancouver’s autumn has a way of seeping into the bones. Every October demanded to be seen when the entire city became a painting of reds, yellows, and oranges. Fall would inevitably bring back the memory of my ginkgo, that lone leaf of my past. And while the leaf itself might have turned to ashes over the years, my memory brought it to life with each turning of the seasons, its fiery glow made new.
5. (n.) the golden leaf that lives on in my mind: a dwindling, mercurial beauty. An urge to appreciate the moments that can’t last forever.
a. Forever
/fəˈrevər/
1. Something that existed to five-year-old me.
2. A concept that only exists within a perennial timeframe.
Example: I am sixteen when, out of curiosity, I search up the old park on Google Maps to look at the ginkgo leaves. The metal cow statues remain on the grass, unchanged and still. Motionless, they quietly entertain a new generation of children, just as they once did.
I check to see if I can spy the ginkgo leaves on my laptop screen. But the image is pixelated, a blanket of gold. In the lower right-hand corner of the screen, a child and an older woman stand in the shade of a ginkgo tree, examining the leaves in their palms.
I live the joy again, this time vicariously.
- The definition of Ginkgo leaf, Wikipedia, including both literary and symbolic meanings.
- The definition of Ginkgo leaf according to five-year-old me, who saw one for the first time in a Shanghai statue park.
- The definition of Ginkgo leaf according to nine-year-old me, who opened up my mother’s self-help book after an argument about my excessive ipad ‘screen time.’
- The definition of Ginkgo leaf according to twelve-year-old me, who reminisced about the ginkgo leaf on the flight from Singapore to Vancouver.
Lily Pan is a writer and student based in Vancouver. She enjoys exploring themes of memory, identity, and nature in her work. When not writing, she enjoys playing tennis, listening to music, and wandering forests with a cream-colored Golden Retriever.
