The Sapling

The Sapling

There is a little green plant

growing in the rubble.

I don't know

who planted it.

Perhaps the rain did.

Perhaps the wind.

Perhaps it simply got lost

and came here by mistake.

It has big leaves,

bigger than my hands,

and a very thin stem

that bends when I touch it.

I touch it gently.

I don't want to hurt it.

Perhaps it is rice.

No, rice doesn't look like this.

Perhaps corn.

Or wheat.

I have seen wheat once,

I think,

in a picture.

Perhaps it is an apple tree.

I hope it is.

I have never eaten

an apple by myself.

Perhaps it is a magic plant.

That would explain everything.

Perhaps that is why

it is growing here,

among the stones

and broken windows

and pieces of people's houses.

Perhaps magic plants

like difficult places.

Perhaps when it grows big

it will have rice on one branch,

corn on another,

wheat somewhere higher,

and apples,

lots of apples,

red and round

and shining.

I have been hungry

for so many days

that I think

I could eat all of them.

But Mama used to say

that we must be patient.

She said freedom

was worth waiting for.

I wonder what freedom tastes like.

Perhaps it tastes like bread.

Perhaps it tastes like milk.

Perhaps it is sweet.

The men who came here

said they had come

to give us freedom.

Then other men came

wearing different uniforms,

and they said

they had come to give it too.

I don't understand.

Why does freedom

need so many soldiers?

Why do they all carry guns

if they are bringing something good?

Maybe when I am older

I will understand.

For now,

I would rather have bread.

The planes are flying again.

Mama says not to look up

when they come,

but I sometimes do.

They look very small

from down here.

Smaller than birds.

At night

the sky becomes orange,

and the buildings

make loud cracking sounds

before they fall.

I don't like that sound.

It sounds like

someone breaking

a giant plate.

I wonder where Mama is.

She told me to wait.

Maybe she is under

one of the fallen houses.

Maybe she is in a tunnel.

There must be tunnels.

Mama told me once

that kings used to dig them

under their palaces

to hide their treasure.

Maybe Mama found one.

Maybe she is sitting there now

beside a mountain of gold,

waiting for me to find her.

I hope she didn't forget

where she hid it.

I carry some water

in my hands

for the little plant.

Most of it falls out

before I reach it.

I try again.

My hands are not very good

at carrying water.

Mama's are.

Mama's hands

can carry almost anything.

She once told me

that gold was not

the greatest treasure.

Knowledge was.

I didn't understand that either.

How can knowledge be treasure

if you cannot put it

in a little box?

But perhaps

she meant books.

Books have stories.

And stories have places.

Maybe the plant

will grow books.

Wouldn't that be wonderful?

Books hanging

from all its branches,

small ones,

big ones,

books with blue covers

and yellow covers,

books about kings

and hidden tunnels,

books about oceans

and countries

I have never seen.

Perhaps I could pick one

whenever I was hungry.

Not to eat.

Just to read.

And perhaps

when I know enough,

I will know

where Mama is.

I will know

what freedom means.

I will know

why the men keep coming.

I will know

why our houses fell.

I will know

why the planes

never seem to get hungry.

Perhaps knowledge

really is a treasure.

Perhaps it can take me

somewhere beyond here.

So I water the plant

again.

Tomorrow I will come back.

Perhaps by then

it will have another leaf.

Perhaps two.

Perhaps a flower.

Perhaps an apple.

And if it is a magic plant,

perhaps tomorrow

it will have a book.

I will pick the smallest one.

I will sit beside it,

and wait for Mama.

After all,

she told me

the greatest treasures

are the ones

that help you find

your way home.