Almond Tree
My short story is an adaptation of the poem Almond Tree, drawing inspiration from its themes, imagery, and structure while reimagining it in a narrative format.
Edwin stood still, watching his almond tree. It had blossomed far too early—on the first day, a few flowers appeared, and by the end of the week, the entire tree was blanketed in white. In his small orchard, nestled beside the family house, it was time for figs, grapes, and pomegranates. The air was thick with the ripening fruits of summer. Across the fence, his neighbor’s apples and pears were heavy with harvest. But the almond tree, with its defiant white blossoms, seemed to challenge the natural rhythm of the seasons.
It wasn’t right. Almonds always bloomed in spring, never in late summer. Edwin frowned, uncertain of the tree’s sudden disobedience. Was something wrong? Or was there something right in its early awakening? His father had always said the trees knew the seasons better than anyone, but now... the tree was out of sync.
His father, seated on his cracked wooden bench nearby, noticed it too. He shook his head slowly, his voice gravelly with age. “Your tree is bidding you farewell, son. False springs… they never last. Rebellious trees are doomed.”
Edwin didn’t respond. His father’s words were heavy with years of experience—always cautioning, always warning against what didn’t align with tradition. It wasn’t that Edwin didn’t respect his father’s wisdom. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to follow the same path anymore.
Later, his father picked up a crumpled flyer from the floor, muttering under his breath. “Bake sale under that tree, huh?” His tone was more resigned than angry. “We don’t need more messes around here.”
Edwin smiled faintly. “It’s just some kids trying to raise money,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
His father, however, had little patience for noise and disruption. “Your mother would have hated that tree too. She never thought it should be there.”
Edwin knew better than to argue. His father had spent most of his life in the quiet company of predictable things—tasks that could be measured, understood. The world had its rhythms, its rules. But Edwin was beginning to question whether the rules they lived by still made sense.
“Maybe you should go visit Mr. Tannous for the night,” Edwin suggested, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m sure he’s waiting for another round of cards.”
His father, still staring at the flyer, didn’t respond right away. “You know, I fought in battles,” he said quietly. “I wear the marks of war like medals. But you… you fight different kinds of battles. I see it in you.”
Edwin raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”
His father sighed, a faint bitterness creeping into his voice. “It’s not always the big fights that matter. It’s the small ones. The ones no one sees, the ones that don’t always make sense. You show up, Edwin. I’ll give you that. But sometimes, showing up isn’t enough.”
Edwin felt a knot form in his chest. The words stung, even though he knew his father didn’t mean to hurt him. It was the kind of criticism that felt like a reminder of everything he hadn’t accomplished yet.
“Sometimes,” Edwin said, his voice softer than he intended, “I wonder if I’ll ever be enough for you.”
His father didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crumpled the flyer in his hands, staring at it with an intensity that suggested he was wrestling with something deeper. Edwin waited, heart pounding. Finally, his father sighed, turning his gaze to the window, his voice almost a whisper. “You’re not a soldier, Edwin. I never expected you to be one. But you don’t have to keep fighting for my approval. I see you, even if I don’t always show it.”
Edwin didn't know how to respond. He turned away, leaving his father in the room as he went to the bathroom, trying to shake off the tension that clung to him like a second skin. He stepped under the cool spray of water, letting it soothe the burn in his chest. It was a brief reprieve, but a necessary one.
When he emerged, he dressed quickly—neat clothes, crisp shirt. Not for anyone else, but for himself. A small part of him had begun to wonder if the night would be different. Maybe seeing Joyce would help. Maybe, just maybe, it would all make sense.
As he stepped outside, the evening air wrapped around him. The town square buzzed with energy—laughter, chatter, the familiar clink of cups and plates. The bake sale was in full swing. The scent of freshly baked ka’ak and maamoul filled the air, sweet and warm. But it was Joyce who caught his attention first. She stood at one of the tables, a plate of cookies in her hand, speaking with an older woman from the neighborhood.
When their eyes met, something shifted. It was the same pull, the same magnetic connection that had always been there. Joyce smiled warmly at him, her laughter ringing in his ears as she called out, “Edwin! You made it!”
He smiled back, feeling lighter than he had in days. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, walking toward her.
She handed him a cookie with a grin. “Try one. I promised my sister I’d bake these for her.” Her voice was teasing, yet somehow comforting. Like she always knew how to ease the tension in him without even trying.
Edwin bit into the cookie, savoring the sweetness. “Not bad,” he teased, “though you could’ve made them a bit more... dangerous.”
Joyce gave him a playful nudge, her smile turning mischievous. “Oh, stop it. You’re lucky I didn’t bake you into a cookie myself.”
As always, Joyce could see through his deflections. Her eyes narrowed, sensing something more beneath the surface. “What’s going on with you?” she asked, her voice soft but intent.
Edwin hesitated. For a moment, he almost wanted to push it all away, but Joyce wasn’t the kind of person you could hide from. He sighed, looking at the ground for a moment. “Just... a lot on my mind.”
Joyce didn’t press. Instead, she took a step closer, her gaze steady, her tone calm. “I’m proud of you, Edwin. I hope you know that.”
Her words lingered, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to quiet. His father had never said anything like that—not in the way Joyce did, expecting nothing in return.
“You are?” he asked quietly, his voice betraying a vulnerability he wasn’t used to showing.
Joyce nodded, offering him a smile. “You’re doing your best. That takes courage.”
Edwin swallowed hard, feeling something release in his chest. Maybe that was enough.
She looped her arm through his. “Come on, let’s grab something to eat before it’s all gone. I’ll introduce you to a few more people.”
He followed her, his mind still swirling with her words. The sound of Umm Kulthum’s Enta Omri drifted through the air from the speakers nearby, her voice resonating with the deep history of their Lebanese roots. The familiar blend of her soaring melodies and the chatter of the crowd made the night feel alive with the weight of generations.
“Please, lead the way,” Edwin said, his voice soft.
Joyce smiled and nodded, pulling him through the crowd. And as they passed under the almond tree—its flowers still stubbornly in bloom—Edwin felt a strange sense of peace. He had always thought there was a right way, a set time for everything. But maybe the tree was teaching him a different kind of patience. Not to wait for the world to catch up, but to bloom anyway. Maybe, just like the tree, he could bloom on his own terms.