It is tied there like a flag at the peak of a game, some sort of girls versus boys nonsense. The tree is thus claimed by the girl and her friend as their base. Because, of course, a tree with rough bark that cuts into the skin and with dense burgundy leaves that obscure any good view of the enemy is an obvious and strategic choice. The ribbon is vibrant with a silky sheen, taken from her friend’s ponytail. 

The war ends in a stalemate, becoming irrelevant when dessert is mentioned. When the time comes to say goodbye, the two friends bemoan the separation, hardly able to wait for the next time they can play together in the garden. They are inseparable, and their parents get along swimmingly, so they won’t have to wait long. 

But because the girl always forgets to take the ribbon from the tree and return it to its owner, it stays there as they play. Fairy make-believe, which somehow spreads beyond a backyard game on a warm Sunday afternoon and becomes a gimmick of collective self-delusion all the girls in their year two class are involved in. All but one, that is. The girl feels guilty for somehow gaslighting her whole class, desperate for their one last classmate to join in and for the alternate reality of going to fairyland at night to be true. 

The little ribbon stays there even after its owner moves back to the other side of the world. It fades slightly; though it is sheltered by foliage, the harsh Australian sun will always have its way, no matter how gradual. It flutters in the breeze as the girl and her sister decide to gather snails in the garden and keep them as pets. But they are neglected, and most shrivel up in a matter of days; any survivors are sometimes recognised by the blue and red text marks on their shells.

The pink ribbon observes as the girl frees a young branch growing in between two others. The part that was stuck is mesmerisingly flat and smooth, smoother than any piece of wooden furniture she’s ever touched. She feels like a plum tree doctor. Her knowledge of the tree’s anatomy means she knows exactly which branches she can sit on comfortably and read. 

The pink ribbon fades some more, yet is still the brightest thing in winter when the grass is brown from drought and the plum tree is devoid of leaves. Every morning, the sisters must go to the backyard and pick grass for the guinea pigs to eat for breakfast — a dreaded job when there is little green grass to be found and when their hands go numb from frost. 

The pink ribbon is there still when one guinea pig is buried beneath the tree, wrapped in an old rag as a coffin. The girl and her sister fashion a crooked cross from fallen sticks found at the base of the tree.

The pink ribbon stays tied there, watching as the sisters discover the delight of jumping from horrific heights off their swings. By some generous miracle, they never quite slam into the low stone wall and break their bones.

The pink ribbon giggles as the currawong swooping low over the swings makes the girl screech in pure fright. In desperation and despite the spiders, she rushes into the cubby house. The swing outside is still creaking as she waits out the long-gone currawong. 

The pink ribbon waits to see if it will stay or leave as the second guinea pig is buried beside its sister. It is very pale after so many summers, matching the colour of the blossoms scattered over the garden every September. The tree is older now, its fewer leaves less able at protecting the ribbon from the summer sun. The girl doesn’t forget the ribbon. After seven years, she reverently unties it from its branch, careful not to damage the frail material. Bursts of its original bright colour still exist, protected by the knot. She folds it carefully and tucks it in a box with her other possessions, ready for the new house. 

The new house has no plum tree — rather a backyard with a pool and a wattle, and rose bushes with flowers in every colour imaginable. But the pink ribbon will stay and be tucked into a drawer. A little memento of childhood, of happy memories in the backyard, of plums making a mess of the footpath thanks to greedy cockatoos, of crimson and eastern rosellas eating seeds beneath the tree, of making gourmet dishes out of mud and flowers, of torturing snails, of jumping on the trampoline with a white-tailed spider and having to interrupt their dad in an important online meeting so he could squish it, of backyard cricket, of sage and sorrel, of mulberries and plums from the three plum trees, of white quartz pebbles, of rushing around playing tips with the neighbours after Minecraft sessions, of the setting for a three-year-old’s sweet dreams, of eleven years, of delightful childhood friendships. 

The pink ribbon holds the memory of it all.