Red Peaches

There stood a magnificent tree, adorned with peaches of the deepest red—some as tiny as marbles, others as vast as the imagination could stretch. Each one, regardless of size, was equally mesmerizing, glowing with an almost otherworldly charm. Their compact clusters, their rich hue, and their sheer abundance held me spellbound. I could not look away.

From the window of my room, I gazed upon this wonder, lost in its beauty. The tree stood beside my sister’s house, where I was to stay for just one fleeting night. And yet, it felt as though fate had placed me there, at that moment, to witness something extraordinary.

But beauty is often ephemeral.

A harsh, jarring sound shattered my reverie—the piercing thud of an axe striking wood. My heart sank. Someone—unknown, unseen—was cutting down the very tree that had bewitched me. The peaches trembled, disturbed from their tranquil existence. The sound of destruction echoed through the house, reaching straight to my soul.

I leaned out of the window, drawn toward the scene as if by an invisible force. A deep sorrow washed over me—not just for the tree and its radiant children, but also for the one wielding the axe. Did they not see? Did they not feel the love of the tree, the mother who had nurtured such beauty? Did they not hear her silent plea?

The tree, though distant, seemed to meet my gaze. A silent understanding passed between us. I watched, helpless, as she succumbed to gravity’s call, surrendering to the inevitable. With her, the peaches rained down like fallen stars, cascading toward my window as if reaching for me—seeking refuge, seeking salvation.

I reached out, hands open, desperate to catch them all. But they slipped through my fingers, one by one, tumbling down, lost to the ground. All except one.

One magnificent peach—the largest, the most splendid of them all—landed safely in my grasp. I cradled it like a treasure, knowing it was a gift, a trust bestowed upon me by the mother who could no longer protect her own.

Now, the tree is gone. Its branches no longer dance in the wind, its vibrant peaches no longer cling to life. The fallen fruits, once dazzling, are slowly losing their luster, their essence fading into the earth. But in my hands, I still hold the miracle—the final, perfect gift of nature.

I never saw the one who felled the tree. But I was left with a lesson, a message whispered through the rustling leaves and the crimson fruit in my palm: Nature is alive. She loves, she nurtures, she grieves. And in return, she asks only for our love.

Though it was a dream, it was one that touched me deeply, one that lingers in my heart. I urge all who hear this tale—love nature, cherish her, protect her. She gives us life, beauty, and peace. And when we hurt her, we, too, must bear the cost.

Let us not be the ones who wield the axe.
Let us be the ones who cradle the peach.