Papa’s Fruit Tree

By Zizheng William Liu

“50 years ago, this city had been a village. At night, I could hear the cows mooing and their hooves beating against the dirt ground. They knew the hurricane was near, but we didn’t. Then it hit. It began with bullets of raindrops crushing down on our roofs, the deafening thunders roaring above, and the winds foreshadowing the destruction that was yet to come. I was about your age then, and it seemed so surreal. That following morning, the sunrise struck me back into reality. The village was flooded. Broken glass scattered the floor, and homes were destroyed. As the village men began to rebuild, I sat under my fruit tree, watching your grandpapa and others slowly bring the village back to life.”

Papa nodded his head, reminiscing about how his entire village was almost ruined. I loved when papa told me stories, and I begged him for one more before bed. His beady eyes curved into a smile as his raspy voice continued echoing throughout my room.

“Years later, when the village had just been rebuilt, another hurricane hit. As the village men began rebuilding the village once more, I sat under my fruit tree, but I couldn’t see grandpapa.”

I bit my lip and my thoughts were coming out choppy and broken. Wh-what? My eyes felt hot, and my pillowcase quickly became damp with tears. But my papa hadn’t noticed. Not my red eyes or the tears dripping onto my bed. His eyes were focused, but not on me. They were still curved and smiling, but his head was cocked back, resting on his shoulders as he finished his story. As he reached to turn off the lights, I could see his sleeve fold back to reveal a tattoo. On it, in small and fading ink read: My fruit tree. My papa once told me I would have to rebuild soon, and I never understood what he meant until now. His fruit tree was dying, and I needed to build it back up.

As he left my room, whisking away down the stairs, all I could think about was his fruit tree, and how badly I wanted to fix it for him.

***

My papa was getting old, and his memory wasn’t as good as it used to be. Day by day, his memory continued to deteriorate. He would forget where he put his sandals, or his remote control. Soon, he had forgotten his friends, his parents, and me. He only remembered himself, and as his condition worsened, he began to lose that too.

For years now, my papa had been struggling with Alzheimer’s. My papa--my best friend--had given me so many memories. I never would have thought he would lose his own only a few years later. Time and time again, whenever I would visit my papa, he would tell his same stories, about how he watched his village under his fruit tree.

In the end, some memories are just too strong to forget.

Zizheng William Liu is an avid writer in Sugar Land, Texas. He loves to express his ideas through his works, and he loves everything from playing basketball with friends to watching the latest Netflix movies.