An Apple Tree and Our Parents

Once upon a time, in a quiet village, there stood a grand old apple tree in the backyard of a small house. The tree was tall and strong, with thick branches and leaves that whispered stories to the wind. It gave the sweetest apples in the entire village and had been there for generations. A little boy lived in the house with his family. Every day, he played around the apple tree—climbing its branches, eating its fruits, swinging from its limbs. The tree loved the boy dearly and was happiest when he was around. “Come, child,” the tree would say with a rustle of its leaves, “Eat my apples, swing on my branches, play in my shade.” The boy grew up, as all children do. He started visiting the tree less often. One day, as a teenager, he came to the tree with a troubled face. “I want toys and games,” he said. The tree replied, “I have no money, but you can take my apples and sell them.” The boy did just that. He sold the apples and bought what he wanted. The tree was happy again—for a while. Years passed. The boy became a man and visited only when he needed something. “I need a house,” he said one day. The tree said, “Cut my branches. Use them to build your home.” The man did. The tree stood bare and wounded, but it smiled because the boy was happy. More years went by. The man returned, now tired and middle-aged. “I need a boat to travel far away,” he said. The tree said, “Cut my trunk and make your boat. Sail to your dreams.” And the man did. Now, the once-grand apple tree was just a stump. Decades later, the man returned as an old man himself. His face was lined with age, and his steps were slow. “I have nothing left to give you,” whispered the stump sadly. “I don’t need anything,” the old man replied. “Just a place to sit and rest.” The stump smiled softly. “Come then, sit. You’ve always had a place with me.” The man sat, leaning against the stump that had once been his apple tree. A gentle breeze blew through the yard as the sun set behind the mountains.