When the trees were small

When the trees were small, they spoke to us. Not in words, of course. Through the rustling of leaves, through the sound of rain tapping on still-forming crowns, they sent messages we understood without translation. We lived then in places where cracks in the asphalt felt more real than the borders of countries. We didn’t yet know what it meant to “leave forever,” because forever was a word invented by adults. And we were still home.

That home wasn’t made of brick, and it had no address. It was inside us: where the old pear tree whispered, where the wind carried the scent of river water, where night curled up behind the stove, and a grandmother smoothed the hem of her apron so as not to disturb the silence. We thought it would last forever. But the trees grew. And so did we.

Now we are in motion. We pack suitcases, learn new alphabets, adjust to different light, to unfamiliar bread, to streets where we are shadows without roots. We are looking for home. Everywhere. And each time, we fail to find it outside. Not in the concrete anthills of big cities, not in the scents of foreign supermarkets, not in the cool eyes of neighbors.

But sometimes — for a second — home appears. In a cup of tea that tastes like your mother’s. In the sound of leaves like those near your old kindergarten. In the voice of a friend who remembers the same song you do. And then we understand: home is not a place. Home is a memory we carry inside. Home is a root that cannot be seen. Home is you, remembering when the trees were small.

No! I am alive! I shall live forever! Within my heart I have that which cannot die…

— Lesya Ukrainka

We are alive. We carry within us that which cannot die. Even if the trees are taller than the houses now, and we are far too grown to speak to them aloud. Still — we hear them.