I carved your name on the tree we sat under. Remember that November afternoon, the sun was just right. You held my hand and led me to the magnificent sycamore tree. We sat in its shade. I was cold, but the warmth of your hand subdued my shivers. The sunlight tried to penetrate the thickness of the branches and leaves. But we both knew that the November sun was too delicate, too feeble.
Months have passed since your martyrdom, but I visit the tree every day. Your body beneath it nurtures its roots and I can see your face in every branch that sways, and every fruit that falls. Sometimes I climb the tree and nestle myself among the branches. I know you’re happy in your eternal life. I know you tell me to be patient and that you’re waiting for me on the other side.
Until we meet in Heaven, I’ll keep visiting you under our tree.