Papa's Tree

• Angela Odoemena, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2021

I matured in the shade of an orange tree in my grandparents’ yard. Our little family had an age-old tradition of road trips across the country at the jingle of Santa’s sleigh. My eyes were shut for the majority of the trip but I always woke up at the same spot. At the exit into the bumpy brown hills scattered with tiny shops en route to my grandparents' home.
I was five when I sat eagerly on the concrete of my grandpa’s porch, begging for a story. His kind face has always looked the same. His upturned smile and white teeth clasped frequently around a chewing stick. His mannerisms remind me of my father’s. The way they pursed their lips in concentration, their shared posh vocabulary, their quiet and reserved nature like a stag. Papa chuckled while sitting back on his chair, and for the 10th time that afternoon, I listened eagerly to his fable of the tortoise with the magic drum.
I remember the tree as she produced delicious oranges in time for Christmas. Her tall bark and wide arms were always welcoming. I recall the rides on the back of my papa’s brown bike through the village as I clutched tightly to his shirt so that I did not fall. He laughed with such ease, turning sharply at the corners until I joined in his merriment. I relished our secret trips to his pond to feed the catfish. After my evening bath, he always had oranges he had picked and sliced with his knife on a plate. We had dinner together while watching the news on a little television set in his living room.
But I went away and kissed time till then.
Once, I wrote him a letter.
The letter travelled across the continent and the Pacific into his parched hands. He wrote me back in sloping perfected lettering. His pen told me a story.
The next time I visited he held a walking stick. He did not use the bike anymore. But he still smiles and laughs just the same. His stories never changed. We sat on his porch looking out. This time I sat on the chair beside him that I had not noticed before. My father’s house stands where she was - the orange tree. I still remember her temper when my sisters and I chased our cousin around her roots. I was fifteen as I sat on that same porch laughing with my papa while he taught me lessons I carry in my pockets.
Brown rugged hills, a lengthy road trip, tumultuous oceans away, I look out the floor to ceiling windows at the fruiting orange trees decorating my home.