I thought of her,
under the spreading of a java plum.
Its warmth had my nana’s scent.
Slender branches resonated her arms.
She planted it as a young girl,
my mother once said.
It grew with her,
aging as the seasons passed.
I plucked a fruit;
staining my palm crimson
and tasted its bitter sweetness.
A picture flashed before my eyes.
A woman with a timeworn face
and tattered clothes
lulling a baby to sleep.
And I wondered,
how trees could be so mysterious.
Silently watching as
the years passed.
And with them, lives.