⏱ ~3 min reading
One spring, my grandfather brought home a small sapling. No bigger than a pencil. Thin, with a few green leaves and a bare root wrapped in a damp cloth.
“What is this, Grandpa?” asked Sofiyka.
"A cherry," replied the grandfather. "The Shpanka variety." Do you want to plant it together?"
Sofiyka beamed. She loved digging in the ground, loved the smell of fresh soil, loved it when her hands were covered in black stains and when her mother washed them with warm water and soap afterwards.
Grandpa chose a place behind the house — near an old pear tree. He dug a hole. Sofiyka held the sapling while Grandpa straightened the roots. Then they covered it with earth. They watered it from a bucket.
“And when will the cherries come?” asked Sofiyka, shaking her hands.
Grandpa smiled.
"Not soon, grandson. The tree is still small. It must first grow up. And then get stronger. And then learn to bloom. And then bear berries.".
— And when did all this happen?
— It depends on you.
— From me?
— Yes. You will take care of it. Water it every day. Talk to it. Love it. And it will grow faster.
Sofiyka nodded seriously. It seemed important to her, like a real adult.
From then on, every morning, as soon as she washed herself, Sofiyka would take a small watering can, fill a bucket with water, and run behind the house. She would water her cherry tree. She would sit on her knees and whisper:
— Good morning, cherry. How are you?
The leaf swayed as if responding.
So the summer passed. The tree grew a little - it became taller than Sofiyka's knee.
Autumn came. The leaves on the sapling turned yellow and fell off. Sofiyka was scared.
"Grandpa, it's dead!"
Grandpa laughed.
"No, my grandson. It's sleeping. Like a bear in its den. It'll wake up in the spring.".
The winter was long. The snow covered everything. Sometimes Sofiyka would stand by the window and look where her tree was hiding under the snow.
In the spring, Sofiyka came running to check. Small, hard buds appeared on the bare branches. Sofiyka hopped on one leg with joy.
"He's alive! He's alive!"
The leaf hatched, green and tender. Sofiyka started walking with the watering can again. Every day. Without exception.
The second summer, the sapling grew to Sofiyka's shoulder. The third summer, it outgrew her.
On the third spring, a miracle happened.
One morning in April, Sofiyka ran out to water the plants - and froze.
The tree was covered with pink blossoms. Tiny, delicate flowers sat on each branch, like a flock of butterflies. Bees buzzed above them.
Sofiyka stood there as if spellbound. Grandpa followed her out and stood next to her.
— I waited.
— Grandpa… it’s… you see…
— I see.
They stood quietly. The bees were working. The wind barely swayed the white and pink petals.
“How many weeks will it take for the cherries to ripen?” Sofiyka asked in a whisper.
"About two months. Just be patient.".
Sophie waited. The blossom fell. In place of each flower, a small green ball grew. The balls gradually filled with juice, gradually turning pink, then red.
One hot June day, Sofiyka picked her first cherry. A small one, with a shiny red cheek. She put it on her tongue. She chewed it.
Sweet. With a slight sourness. Like the real thing.
She ran to the kitchen to her grandmother.
— Grandma! Grandma! Taste it!
Grandma tasted it. She closed her eyes in pleasure.
"Oh, granddaughter. This is the most delicious cherry I've ever had.".
— Why?
"Because I know how many of your mornings she has.".
Sofiyka remembered all those mornings. With the watering can. With conversations. With winter anticipation. With spring excitement.
It seemed to her that each cherry on her tree weighed more than a bunch of ordinary cherries from the market.
That summer, Sofiyka made jam from her cherries. A small jar was put on a shelf in the pantry.
When they opened it in winter, the jam smelled of summer, of my grandfather's garden, and a little bit of the third spring of Sofiyka's life.
💡 What we grow every day, drop by drop, will someday bear fruit.