Letting go of things, people, is part of life

The leaves at the very top form a green canopy of life from a distance. You hear them, the whistling of the leaves as the wind sweeps gently between them, looking for a warm cuddle. But what sticks with you is the feeling they bring. Standing under these trees gives you a fraction of an idea of what it must have felt to live in the Garden of Eden before the Devil slithered out of his hole and whispered sweet nothings into somebody’s ear.

Every evening after a long day, he sits at his porch, on his swinging chair, mug of porridge in hand, a transistor radio permanently set to a vernacular station behind him and gazes in the general direction of his trees; these trees he planted as a young man, and savours whatever sunset moments he savours.