It's almost three weeks now since I replanted you in this secluded spot, hidden among the tall grass and bamboo.
That late afternoon, drenched by off-season rains, I carried pick and shovel and you in a plastic pot, made my way through a slippery trail, and set you down here.
I went barefoot for better traction, dug a hole into the rocky soil, put in some compost, carefully replanted you, and tamped the soil back. Then I defined your space with a circle of rocks, and cleared the surroundings for you to get good morning sunlight.
It was dusk when I finished. I was tired, having come from work. I had a few scratches on my hands and arms from the sharp blades of tall grass, from which tiny beads of blood trickled out. My bare feet were muddy and sore.
But I was happy.
I had earlier wanted to replant you in another spot, on a higher slope, almost among the limestone rocks on the topmost ridge, with a clear sight of the valley. That was where I often climbed, took a seat on a stony ledge, and quietly gazed at the clouds, whenever I felt the pangs of loneliness pull me down.
But I feared that you might not survive that other spot, which was more vulnerable to slides and rockfalls, and to sudden gusts of stormy wind, not to mention kids on a weekend spree of vandalism among the suburban wilds.
So I planted you on this spot, more secluded, but still near the top ridge.
Nearly everyday, I check on you and water your roots on late afternoons. Often, I sprinkle more compost to the rocky soil, and clear the surrounding brush to widen your space. Sometimes I even spend a couple of minutes just watching you, as a mother gazes with endless wonder at every twitch of her sleeping child.
In a year's time, I would probably no longer be here to guard and care for you. You will be on your own, reaching up to bathe in sun and dew, reaching down to drink the rain-soaked soil and to hug the rocky slopes.
And when you shall have grown a few feet in a few years, you will finally overtake the tall grass and race upwards to catch the bamboo's monsoon culms. You will continue your graceful green-wood climb. You will grow taller and stronger from year to year, until you dominate the landscape with your majestic stand.
And when I return, I know you will recognize me still. I know you will welcome me like the forest celebrates the changing colors of the sky and the shifting seasons of the sun.
And if it was my choice to make, it will be under your quiet shade, beside the aromatic tears of your resinous bark, carpeted by your soft bed of dried needle leaves, where I will lay me down in final repose.
So grow tall and strong, Araucaria, my friend, my child, my gift to this soil where I now walk.
