fare thee well

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When my sister was a little girl, she and my grandfather planted an avocado seed in our front yard.  It grew and grew and after many years, it finally bore fruit.  The avocado from that tree was the creamiest we had ever tasted.  It wasn’t hairy or bitter like most avocado fruits sold in the market.

We loved that tree dearly.  Not only because it produced the best-tasting fruit, but more importantly because it was my sister and my grandfather who planted it.  We worried about it incessantly during typhoons.  It was the first thing we checked as soon as the sky cleared up.

We found out fairly recently that the avocado tree was actually planted out of bounds.  We hoped the owners of the adjacent lot wouldn’t cut it down when they start construction.  We were assured it wouldn’t be touched.

So imagine my consternation when I went outside one day and saw one of the construction workers cutting down about half of the tree.  I was ready to raise hell then.  But they told me they were just lopping off a few branches.  They weren’t going to chop down the whole tree.

The avocado tree had five fruits then.  It produced a lot of blossoms after that.  It seemed as if it was pleading its case.

“Look, I’m going to bear much fruit! Please don’t cut me down!”

Every single day, I would sit on the balcony and marvel at the sheer number of blossoms and how big the fruits were getting.

“They’ll be ripe soon.”

“The avocado will be ready in about a week.”

“Just in time for your sister’s arrival.”

We all monitored the fruits’ progress.  I guess we all had that fear that we would wake up one day and find that the tree had been chopped down.

I never thought it would be today.

My dad had just got back from an errand when he burst in and said, “They’re chopping it down!”

I immediately ran outside and saw the construction workers mercilessly butchering our beloved tree.

“The roots are in the way,” they said.

But they could’ve warned us.  Our attachment to the tree wasn’t a secret.  We declared how important that tree was to us.  The least the owners of the lot could have done was tell us that they were chopping it down.

We could’ve at least taken a picture of our beloved avocado tree with all its blossoms and fruits.

We could’ve at least said good-bye.

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