The Weight of Coconut Palms
Some trees hold more than fruit—they carry the stories of generations who found shelter in their shade.
The coconut palm in our front yard was planted the day my grandfather was born, ninety-three years ago. My great-grandmother had saved the seed from a particularly sweet coconut, one that had fallen during an auspicious time.
Now, standing beneath its massive canopy, I can barely wrap my arms around its trunk. The bark is scarred with the marks of decades—initials carved by young lovers, grooves worn by the ropes of countless coconut climbers.
