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The seedling has been given as a present to my father. It is a fruit-bearing tree – a mango tree – nurtured out of a seed by a very close family friend. It is the last surviving variety and my dad’s friend took all the pains bringing it from the neighboring province where he lived, to our farm. I remembered it looked wilted and limped when it arrived home from hours of long bumpy ride, wrapped in plastic bag with some soggy soil in it.
My father planted it a few distance away from the house. Every day, he would water it, put wooden fencing around to guard it against stray goats who would come close by to munch the succulent sprouting leaves. To some extent, it became a lifelong remembrance between the two best friends.
The sapling thrived and after years of care and attention, the once skinny woody stalk became a firm trunk with strong roots deeply anchored to the ground. The branches had spread out beautifully, forming a crown of shiny lush green leaves. It became home to some local birds. The bleating goats have long been gone. My father would admiringly look at the tree and proudly tap the sturdy trunk with his walking stick. He is now old and a lingering illness is slowly taking its toll on his health.
“The tree has already casts its shade upon me”, he said. “As my bones start to brittle and my body becomes frail, so as the tree will become strong. I may be gone, before the first flowers bloom, no longer be able to smell their sweet fragrance, nor taste the sweetness of its fruit. I have done my part and may God bless me.”
I felt sad and helpless. If only I could draw out inside me some of the vigor of my youth and share it with him to prolong his life. But, I told him the tree will always be there for the next generation to see and partake the fruits of his toil.
One day, his old friend came to visit him. He brought along his family. I cannot help but notice the joy in their eyes as the two old friends met again and hugged. It was an unexpected reunion. Like an impatient young boy, my father took his friend’s hand and led him to the place where the tree stood. At long last, the three have finally met. A small table was set underneath its shade and for the whole day, we all shared together the small delights prepared for that extraordinary occasion. The tree bore witness to the resolute bond of the two individuals who nurtured, raised and cared him all these years, to become the verdant symbol of their lifelong friendship.
Seasons came and went. The tree withstood the tests of time. One rainy day, buds started to appear on the tree’s wet branches. And before long, millions of tiny yellow flowers burst forth, spreading its sweet heady fragrance far and wide. As the summer came, the sweet mango fruits were ready for harvest. Then I remembered my father’s prophetic words as I held the plump fruit in my hand. May God bless his soul.
I watched my little nieces and nephews as they cheerfully sat around nibbling on the sweet yellow juicy fruit they held in their hands. They climbed the branches, played around the trunk while trying to catch the slivers of sunlight cast on their faces by the dancing leaves above. They asked me where did the tree come from, and why its fruits are so sweet.
And I started again. "The seedling has been given as a present to your grandfather…”
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