The Fig Tree I Grew
Somewhere in that garden, something I once cared for is still growing.
A few weeks ago, I received some pictures from my ex-boyfriend, the one who once helped me bury my dried flowers in that garden.
He sent me photos of my fig tree.
My little fig tree, which is not so little anymore.
There was a time when it was just a thin, fragile, tiny branch I had taken from another tree many years ago. I placed it in water and waited. Not for days or weeks, but for a full year, until it finally grew strong enough roots.
Then I planted it in the soil.
For two years, I cared for it indoors. Slowly, patiently, I introduced it to the outside world, taking it out during the day, bringing it back in at night. Over and over again, until it was strong enough to stay outside on its own all year long.
I watched it learn how to live.
I took care of it for years.
And one day, it gave me figs.
Many people told me it wouldn’t happen, that it was unlikely. But I didn’t believe them.
I was that slightly crazy plant lady, whispering to it, touching its leaves gently, telling it, “One day, you will give figs.”
And it did.
The first time, there were only two. Big and soft.
The next year, there were more.
And then more.
In 2023, it gave me fifteen figs.
Fifteen.
Not just fruit.
Proof.
That care matters. That patience matters. That belief, even when it looks foolish to others, matters.
When I moved again, to another apartment in another city, I couldn’t take my little tree with me. I didn’t have the space.
So I asked my ex, who had become one of my closest friends, to take care of it. He had been there from the beginning. He had seen that tiny branch grow into something alive.
I told him, “Just until I have a place again where I can take it back.”
A year and a half passed.
Then, a few weeks ago, he sent me those pictures.
They had planted the tree in the garden.
He told me it had stopped growing in the pot. Its roots had outgrown the space. He sent me a picture of those roots, strong, full, almost as if they had been waiting for this moment.
And then another picture, of the tree in its new home.
In the ground.
When I saw those photos, I started crying.
And I couldn’t stop.
It caught me off guard, how deeply it hit me. I had cared for that plant for so many years. I had watched it grow from something fragile into something that could survive on its own.
I was happy.
Truly happy that it now had more space, more freedom, a chance to grow into what it was always meant to be.
But at the same time, something inside me ached.
Because it was no longer mine to care for.
It might sound small. It might sound silly.
But it didn’t feel small to me.
It felt like letting go of something I had loved for years.
That garden holds more than just my fig tree.
It’s the same garden where I buried my dried flowers.
The same place where I fed the squirrels, again and again, for two years, until they finally trusted me enough to take a walnut from my hand.
The squirrels will have their own story one day.
That garden holds pieces of my life I can never take back.
And when I saw those pictures, it felt like a part of me was still there.
Living its own life.
Without me.
The tears weren’t just about the tree.
They were about time.
About everything we grow, care for, love, and eventually have to leave behind.
Even now, when I think about my fig tree, I still feel it.
But more than sadness, I feel something else now, too.
Pride.
My little plant is no longer little.
He has roots deep in the earth now.
He doesn’t need me anymore.
And maybe that was always the point.
One day, he will be big, strong, and full of fruit, giving something back to the people who live there.
And maybe that is enough.
Maybe that is what it truly means to care for something.
To love it.
To nurture it.
And then, slowly, let it go.
One day, I will be gone.
But he will still be there.
Growing.
Living.
Giving.
And somehow, without me even noticing when it happened.
My little fig tree taught me something very valuable, too.
Patience.
With a proud smile,
GOO:DMOO:DISM