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  • Jameel Haiat

Memory of Mother

Updated: 6 days ago

Dressed in his blue coveralls and neon vest, the man swept the leaves and debris up as quickly as it fell. The tree refused to cooperate with him. She chose to revolt against his broom, and disperse her old ratty twigs, while dropping her burnt and dead leaves, but only in jest. She giggled as she did so, and thus shook even more. The tree was funny that way.

The man continued his battle. He refused to give in to the tree. He swept and swept, and barely just kept pace with the old tree as she laughed at the frenzy she had created. She loved to play with these men, especially when they were young and more innocent.

But as they grew, the men always seemed to forget the loving friendship and wonderful relationship they had shared when they were children. So the tree was always happy to indulge men with subtle reminders by her playful display of color, of growth, of the shedding of her leaves. The man, this cleaner, he was no different from other men, and try as the tree might, the man still could not remember his fondness for the tree and her cheerful demeanor. He had truly forgotten his childhood love for this beautiful, elegant tree.

The man in the light grey three piece suit ran down the street, jumping over the fresh puddles as he did so. Finally, after one jump too many, his briefcase popped open, spreading his documents and important papers to the mercy of the wind. The wind saw her chance, she moved in and swiped up these lovely new paper kites, blowing them here and there, flustering the man with her sweet, silly bluster.

He cursed himself as he ran around in circles like a dog chasing its tail, picking up a piece here and a piece there. “Damn you wind”, he shouted out loud, the onlookers thinking how mad he was. The wind giggled and blew harder, provoking his anger, but to her, it was just a game. A game they would play when the man was young, one of pure joy, of frivolity and of love. It was a game he had forgotten now that he was a man.

He forgot about when he was a child, how the wind would blow and gently lift his kites with her lovely breath. Sometimes, they would sail so high that he almost thought they were gone, lost to the horizon, until the wind would gently lower them back into his loving arms. After all, she was only the wind, and there to bring joy to this boy, nothing more.


The weed asked the rain, "Can you please bring me a few more drops today?" The weed needed the extra rain today to attempt to keep the big metal thing that the men rode in at bay. The weed thought, if I can get enough from my friend the rain, then my green babies can grow and push away this metal monster. Oh how lovely that would be, she thought. To envision all of her babies in place of these man made metal monstrosities, ah such a wonderful dream.

The weed thought, why don’t these men remember the days when they would roll around and play with us and our cousins the grass? It was wonderful then, when they were young. They are so forgetful now, these men. Oh well, rain, please bring me as I ask and I will do my best to remind these men of the joy they have forgotten, of the delightful growth we can wield, and the vibrant color we can share.


Together, the tree, the wind and the weed reminisced about their loving time with these men, about their years of youth, of sweet and innocent childhood. They thought about the laughter and joy they had all shared. They remembered how lovely it was, how happy they made one another. And, mostly, how they wished that those times would enter into the memories of these men before it was too late, not just for them, but for them all...

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