'The Guava Tree' by Mohammed Rizwan

My mother sits under the guava tree, shading from the midday sun.

A few months ago, the tree’s branches drooped, its leaves lost much of their colour, and it started birthing fewer fruits.

But the trunk was strong and the fruits still sweet.

My mother points to the fruits. I climb the tree, not needing to stretch.

I throw the guavas into the basket my mother raises. When it is half-full, “that’s enough,” she says, and I climb down and sit on my feet, opposite her.

She cuts a guava into wedges and hands me two.

“I need to tell you something,” she says. She removes her headscarf.

At the same as I fall back in shock at her baldness, the leaves on the guava tree fall onto her, covering her in reds and golds and some green.

She waves away the leaves and holds out her arms. I run to her and sit on her knee. Once, her body was soft, but I can feel bones now. Her clothes are loose. The gold bangles hang off her wrists.

She hands me another wedge of guava.

“The tree is dying,” she says.

The guava wedge is sweeter than it was before.

“I will water it,” I tell her.

“This tree has lived its life. It cannot grow again.”

I look up at the tree. Its fruit bearing branches have pointed themselves at me. My mother hands me the basket and I collect the fruits.

“Take one to each of your aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents and tell them I have sent them a gift. When you come back, we will take a nap under the midday sun.”

I nod and leave my mother to be comforted by the guava tree.