Let us travel to the fig tree. Inspect its fruits. Look past its leaves, for they try to conceal the stellar treasures. Squeeze each fruit to find the one that gives most. That fruit yields the utmost stimulating taste. A taste that brings you glee and joy. A taste that feeds comfort to your soul. A taste that restores your faith. A taste that guarantees you bliss. The fruit models that of a special person who will support and love you unconditionally.


My aunt gifted me this fig tree on a summer day in 2016.


1:00 P.M.: the sun hugged the earth, welcoming itself from the striking blue sky. No clouds lingered to conceal the rays. The cicadas sang in soft whispers. I sat cross-legged on the ground, and the grass tickled me. Before me sprawled my aunt’s stereotypical red barn, complete with weathered paint and ivy-ridden shingles. I spent some time with the goats—I can recall all their names, from Buttercup to Yoohoo. As an alumna from Cornell Veterinary Medicine, my aunt houses an abundance of fauna and flora.


My aunt strolled out of the greenhouse—an overgrown, overflowing mass of vegetation—to reveal her gift to me. I smiled, my eyebrows furrowed with questions. It appeared to me she was holding a fruitless bush—perhaps a browned, midgitized birch tree. I finally asked what this twisted plant was. Once I found out the plant’s identity, a glow of warmth commenced inside me.


“You asked me for a fig tree last summer, no?” my aunt laughed brightly. 


Let us go back to the fig tree. You find the gentlest, squishiest fruit. Twist it off with great care. You don’t want to corrupt the slight walls that cradle its Almighty contents. Otherwise, the fig may erupt, and you will miss out on the exceptional tasting experience. It is impossible to find a match that provides that one’s potent ecstasy. No other can motivate you to this extent. No other can present you this level of achievement. Once you encounter this devoted figure, keep wary to never let them go.


I strapped the tree with a gentle hand in the back of the silver Acadia. Thirty-two minutes pass, and the air pressure dropped, the sky warmed a lavishing orange, and I arrived at my house. The fig tree relaxed in a water bath inside my greenhouse. I care for her like my aunt cares for me—dotingly, ceaselessly, lovingly. I looked at that tree and found my solace.


How do you feel after you collect the best figs? Consider the chemical changes in your brain. You accomplished an energy-consuming task; you take pride in this. Your terrific figs willingly offer themselves to you; you are grateful. What about the events following your harvest? Your excellence in fig-picking inspires you to assist others; you present yourself as an aid to your contemporaries. Your elation glides with you through the day, destressing your body; you enjoy a long, satisfying slumber that night.


Picture all of humanity picking figs, communally. Everyone seeking to obtain the finest figs. They may not find the best ones each time, but that’s alright; the hour will smile at its arrival.


One can do worse than be a picker of figs.


This poem is about: 
My family
Our world


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