Ode to Rose Apple

A platter of rose apple

A rare fruit—

a relative of guava and Java plum,

was a staple of my childhood.

So let me share an ode.

In our front yard stood

a beautiful tree

with a dark, black trunk—

the signature of our house.

In spring, it bloomed

fan-like, faint greenish flowers,

emitting a soothing fragrance

I still cherish fondly.

My friends came over

just to smell them.

The fruits formed,

and by summer they dropped.

I gathered them from the ground,

Or picked by climbing the tree.

They were my snacks—

rose-water taste and crunch

in every bite.

Out of respect,

I saved the best ones

for the man who planted it—

my father, who is no more.

We shared them with guests

and visiting relatives.

I played with the dark seeds.

Years passed by.

The tree declined and shrank.

The last I saw

was a few years ago,

with a bulbul bird perched on it.

It was chopped down

to build houses.

But I’m glad

it has clone in the backyard

big enough to bear

opulent fruits.

I hope one day

I can share that taste

steeped with nostalgia,

with my kids.