Rain.

Looking at it at 5.30AM in the morning, I felt overwhelmed as usual at its majestic size.

It was not as if everyone in my town didn’t see it every day. It was right beside the road in the front of the hospital. No one had the time to spare for marvelling at that creation. The only thing about it that was not beautiful was that it was here in front of my home, within the compound of the Government hospital, and not at a tourist place.

Maybe it took generations to get to its size. Maybe a few decades. I don’t know. The only thing I remember is that it was always that size. Always standing tall and proud. Its root and heart firm where it stood, determined to be, as if it was on a mission. A mission maybe it was blessed with a lifetime ago.

I sometimes wish I could talk to it for it has seen the land that was this place before my home was built. Before the roads, before the walls, before the air was laden with the sound and smoke that is now. I grieve at not being able to hear its voice for I know it has stories to be told that I could never in a lifetime imagine myself. When my Dad talks about the crazy strong person challenging the villagers to knock him off his feet, when I hear my Mom tell the stories of her walking to her family’s house in her skirt, my imagination deceives me with the influence of the TV.

But the tree has seen it, lived through it and bears witness to many a character and their doings.

As I write this, I say my thanks for its existence, and I painfully recollect those memories where its brothers and sisters fell. Few without having the strength to bear the burden and a few having had the humans’ saw to its bark. Reasons were many and there wasn’t any among us who raised a finger to have spoken to their defence.

Although I smile thinking of the shade it gives my home and my Dad during the rising sun, I see the rain drops falling of its leaves and can’t help but see it cry.