My Branches of Life

In “Branches of My Life”, Faramarz Parsa paints a tender portrait of aging, love, and reflection.

A retired man sits in his San Diego garden, savoring the warmth of the sun and the touch of an old newspaper — a relic of a fading world. As he gazes at his trees — lemon, orange, fig, and avocado — he suddenly realizes they all share one soil yet bear different fruits.

From this quiet moment, a profound truth blooms: he and his wife are like the tree — he, the root; she, the branch that gives fruit; their children, the fruit; and their grandchildren, the seeds of new life.

When his wife calls him back from his “room of thoughts,” humor and tenderness intertwine. Her playful reproach reminds him that love, like a tree, must be tended every day.

He kisses her forehead and whispers, “You are the branches of my life.”

A story about memory, gratitude, and the beauty of growing old — gracefully, and together.

🌳 Branches of My Life

By Faramarz Parsa

The blazing San Diego sun at midday is a blessing for retirees my age.

I sit on my wicker chair beside the geraniums, facing the small round table that has patiently carried my coffee cup, a bottle of vodka, and my glass for years.

Unlike other days, I brought a newspaper with me today. The touch of its paper feels comforting — it smells like the past, a past no shining laptop screen can replace.

For my generation, raised on printed words, these digital devices are nothing but trouble. I told my kids once,

“To me, these things are more junk than tools!”

Times have changed, though. The same words my father once told me, I now say to my children.

As the old saying goes: “This is your aunt’s soup — whether you eat it or not, you’re stuck with it!”

As my eyes followed the lines of the newspaper, I reached for my coffee cup — but it wasn’t there. I looked up and saw the garden: three trees side by side — lemon, orange, and fig — and, a little farther, an avocado.

I had seen them a thousand times before, yet today they seemed different. I let the newspaper fall and leaned back in my chair.

All had grown from the same soil, yet each bore a different fruit — with its own color, taste, and scent.

From one earth, so many colors and flavors rise — red, yellow, green, white, black. I was stunned by the miracle of it.

And suddenly I whispered to myself:

“You are the same tree — you’ve just forgotten.”

Half of me is root, the other half trunk.

And my wife? She is the branches and leaves.

I come from the earth; she comes from my rib — that is the secret of continuity.

A woman is the branch that bears fruit;

A man, the root that holds her firm.

Our children are the fruits, and the seeds within them are our grandchildren — the next forest to bloom.

After seventy years, I finally understood how simple yet profound this bond is.

Then I heard her voice:

— “Could you come down from those stairs of thought and give me a hand?”

I laughed and stood up.

— “At my age, I can’t even climb, let alone come down!”

She smiled as I entered the room.

— “Where were you?”

— “Just sitting in my room of thoughts.”

— “I called you three times!”

— “The door was closed; I couldn’t hear.”

— “Then how did you hear the fourth time?”

— “Because I came to get my coffee — and the door opened!”

She laughed, shaking her head.

— “Since you retired, those geraniums and that wicker chair have become your best friends. You’ve forgotten me!”

Something inside me trembled — not guilt, but tenderness.

I kissed her forehead and said softly,

“My dear, you are the branches of my life.”