Our Manacá Tree
Before moving to our current home, we lived in our previous house for almost 20 years. It was our first home.
We carry many fond memories from that time. It was where I was proposed to, where we welcomed our daughter when she was born, where we celebrated so many special moments, welcomed our first little dog, and received dear friends and family. In short, a lifetime of good things for which we have so much to be grateful.
Our memories of that place begin even before the house existed. We remember when there was nothing there but a plot of land, and every stage of its construction. Once we moved in, we kept transforming the spaces through the different phases of our lives.
Creating the garden was always a special chapter in that story.
First came the first plant, the first tree, the flowers, the flower beds, more trees, and later, our vegetable garden. Over the years, we observed the spaces, learned what worked best, and patiently and carefully added species we loved.
Among all the beautiful plants in that garden, one was always particularly special to us: our manacá tree.
We bought it as a small sapling, but it quickly took root and grew strong.
Our tree was not only a backdrop and a challenge for a few climbing adventures — the manacá and my daughter grew up together. Its size enchanted us and, above all, its beauty when it bloomed.
Every flowering season was a spectacle.
The flowers would first appear white and, soon after, take on different shades of lilac. Inevitably, the manacá became the backdrop for countless photographs — some of the most beautiful we ever took in that house.
It was hard to walk past it without stopping to admire such beauty.
From my bedroom window, it was one of the first things I would see. And my delight was even greater because from there I could also hear the birds that landed on its branches, rested there, or built their nests.
When we moved, we continued visiting the house regularly.
About three months later, however, during one of those visits, we were met with something that left us both bewildered and deeply saddened: seemingly from one moment to the next, our manacá had completely dried out.
The rest of the garden, by then well established, remained almost exactly as before.
Except for the manacá.
We never found an explanation for its death. It did not seem to be due to lack of water. We found no pests. The other plants remained healthy.
It simply dried out.
Recently, while selling the property, the real estate agent asked me what I liked most about the house.
I answered almost immediately: looking at our garden.
Then, with sadness, I pointed to the corner where our manacá had once stood. All that remained of that lush tree was a small stump.
At that moment, I remembered a children’s book that always moves me: The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein.
The story follows the relationship between a boy and a tree throughout his life. As the boy grows and his needs change, their relationship changes as well. At each stage, the tree gives something of itself.
Perhaps that is why it was impossible not to think of our manacá.
I imagine that it missed our presence, our attention, our energy. Perhaps that place, for the tree too, had become connected to the life we had built there.
Or its departure coincided with the end of a cycle.
But perhaps that is exactly the lesson: there are things, places, moments, and living beings that seem so permanent while they are part of our everyday lives that we almost believe they will always be there. Until one day, they are not.
And yet, they remain a part of us.
Today, when I look at that space in the garden, I still feel sadness.
But above all, I feel grateful to have been part of our story.
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