Confessions of a Carob Planter

Suprised to find moonshine in these parts,
I sat down and bought him a drink.

He was weary, and the whiskey
hit his veins like a match to a trail of gasoline.

He smiled and lifted his glass in appreciation.

To tell you the truth, he said,
I believe those things I said to Honi,
but it wasn't only about those future generations.

Go on, I said, fingers encircling glass,
swirling the contents

Well, I got so famous from the story, I
couldn't tell people, because the point
wouldn't come across.

I didn't just plant that tree
for my future family.
I also planted it for me.

But why?

I wanted them to remember I love them.

I wanted to leave an indellible mark on the world.

And mostly, I love carob trees.

Tending to them, caring for them,
finding their roots and helping them
stretch themselves out

Their smell.

How the bark feels against my fingers,

and the curve of the trunk against my body.

How their branches flow in the breeze,

and the beauty of the green of their leaves set against a late summer sunset sky.

Because I cannot taste her fruit right now, does that make this tree
any less worthy of my love?

does that diminish her glory?

So, sure, I did it for future generations.

but I wish Honi understood

-he downed the last drops of whiskey-

that patiently tilling that which you love

is as important a lesson to learn

as passing that love to the future.