Over there, where the last houses give way to tall grass, there is a lone cherry tree. Lingering petals and diligent insects have hidden the rough stone beneath which the Bananafish lies, carrying with itself stories, dreams, laughter and other strange alchemical concoctions. Even the children no longer play under the old cherry tree, whose rotting caresses imprint the rhythm of forgotten songs on the stone, in an eternal, ephemeral sob.