Trees and Bees
With gentle hands, they planted the seed and covered the patch with hands atop one another. He looked up at her with tender eyes, and she, with a radiant glow, fixated herself on the mass at hand.
As the years went by, the seedling blossomed into a young, premature bud. They patiently curated the small sprout, making sure the flower was well fed and showered with care. Slowly but surely, their roots took hold. Soon, there would be a foundation upon which unwavering love sat at the pit.
I see it in them — in their eyes. It’s fear and endearment and pride all in one. Fearful that their daughter, whom they sower with love, will wither and their dignity will fall into deep despair.
I feel the roots in me — in my heart. It grows with time inching further and much deeper to my core. Inversely proportional to the time the two lovers have left on this Earth. It grapples my heart, the patch where they buried they’re treasure.
I can smell it in the food — in each meal. They cook each dish with laborious and tiresome hands, topping it with a sprinkle of the remaining love they hold. They prepare the most intricate and compelling cuisines as if feeding it to me will sustain the tree that has aged so elegantly in me.
I can hear it in them — in their soul. They are passionate for one another and for the fruit they bring bearing to the land, me. Through wisdom, they taught me how to live, how to care, and how to love. They are heartfelt and practical, and it is I who shall carry their grace and love well past their grave.
To my parents that will always have a special place in my heart. A mild thank you is not enough to express the gratitude I have for you. I am forever in debt to you, and will love you always.