While I was visiting my grandfather, I decided to test my energy (being hot-blooded and all) so I jumped onto one of the branches of the tree under which his house is. In my mother tongue it is called a mukura. I do not know the English-name equivalent.
The branch creaked. I could feel it give way, resisting but unable to remain firm. I quickly let go before it let me down. Last year that branch could have borne my weight easily. I remember swinging from it for a minute or two. It remained rigid then.
Granted, I was not as heavy as I am now and it is not as strong as it used to be. It was also from that very branch that my father used to do pull-ups when he was a strapping young man. I know this because he told me. That tree has some significance to us.
It has witnessed a lot of beatings, laughs, tears, arguments, angers and loves. It is also where we sit surrounding The Old Man when we, sundry relatives who have come to visit, are home. The stories it could tell. I enjoy being under it. It is fragrant and shady and old. I am sure you see the metaphors here. I will enjoy the tree while it is there.