By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

YESTERDAY, I was supposed to report to Intramuros to finish editing a manuscript. It was a normal day, everything was on schedule, and my sister and I left the house early, at 7:00 a.m. to avoid the traffic. We took the first zipper lane, which made the travel faster, arriving at my apartment in twenty minutes. I have one hour, I thought, to water the plants, before the car picks me up for work.

I was surprised to see that the potted plants were in disarray, with smaller pots carelessly piled up on top of the bigger ones. Some of the plants were torn from their limbs. The Palawan cherry tree from Fuga Island, was uprooted and there is no sign of its existence except for the pot where I moved it a week ago to have more space to grow. A burglar would have been more careful, avoiding attention. This was the work of someone who hated plants, or has a deep-seated fear of trees because I noticed that the reinforcement my brother installed to secure the potted cottonwood tree from falling was somewhat deformed, but the tree remained standing, having been tied around with wire to the steel bars in the fire escape.

I knew who it was. It was not the first time my brother overheard him express his fear to his wife, “That tree is going to fall over our heads if we don’t cut it.” But it was less than three meters, and had survived several typhoons, which ironically, blew the galvanized sheets from a neighbor’s roof. Before that, he was complaining about the moringa tree in the backyard, that it might fall over on their lot. His wife told him, “Don’t meddle with it. That is their plant, they are responsible for it.” But the tree slowly died, from his constant tearing of its limbs, and from the venom of his intention. I did not see him do it, not then, not now. But culprits always leave their specific marks, like dogs marking territory. Besides, the tree was located at arm’s length between our backyard and theirs.

Then a call from a colleague, reminding me that she is now at the lobby waiting for me to fetch her. It was when I tried to answer her that I remembered, I actually did not have breakfast, because there was pain in my mouth when I chewed and talked. Since she could not make out the words from my very soft voice, I sent her a message, “I can’t talk.” She was considerate to allow me this day, to see my doctor, to attend to my wellbeing. For this, I had to wait after office hours, for my sister to be able to drive me to the neurosurgeon. With time in my hands, I thought of ways to ensure the wellbeing of the plants in the garden.

My condition prevented me from carrying weights, and therefore I could not water the plants without a hose, so I prayed for rain. I also asked my brother to cut one meter from the top of the cottonwood tree from my bedroom to alleviate the fear of my neighbor, in the hope that the deranged man will stop obsessing about killing it. He wired the plants together, to make it more difficult to dismantle them. We know that a determined tree killer, can go past these security measures, but that is the best that could be done, considering, I am not physically present in this place. Months ago, I started to live with my sister, to have some space to think and write.

I have not eaten lunch. I can’t chew without pain, but I was lucky to listen to the heavy rain. I got what I prayed for. The plants can survive another day, with love and gratitude, and with nature’s assurances of recuperation and rebirth. As I would.

Rain, falling heavily on dried branches
drenching leaves, flowers, quenching thirst
washing away dust, easing pain

Ute Margaret Saine, I miss you too, dear friend. Thank you for digging up your poem, A Gift of Trees, whose verses burn, and sing to my soul:

“… And that one is studded with purple flowers that sing, singeing blood drops from the heart …”

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