Magnolia in front of the door

 　　At first, it wasn't as tall as me, but within two years, it was taller than my head.

　　I had a pact with the magnolia: if I left, the magnolia would leave; if I stayed, the magnolia would stay.

　　Two more years passed, and I was walking back and forth in its dense shade, living under its shade. In my life, the magnolia is my favorite tree. I love its leaves, I love the glossy green of its leaves, I love its flowers, and I especially love the bees and butterflies fluttering among them.

　　Whenever I'm home, I gaze at it countless times. When I'm away from home, I think of it countless times. The magnolia has become a part of my life.

　　The magnolia in spring brings me emotion. It blooms so unexpectedly, one by one, so white. Standing under the tree, I often compare its white blossoms to the white of the pear blossoms on the old, weathered pear tree behind the house, and to the white of the apricot blossoms on the low apricot tree by the wall. I find that comparison very interesting, and I feel that its white is a dazzling white, an indispensable white of the village, a clean white, a refreshing white. Especially those slightly plump bees or butterflies, either sleeping in the embrace of the flowers in the morning, or waking up in the dreams of the flowers. My gaze lingers on the flowers for a long time, and the scene of butterflies in love with flowers moves me. I am moved by the magnolia's emotion.

　　The magnolia in summer brings me peace. Even after the flowers have faded, the magnolia remains peaceful. Standing under the tree, I often compare it to the pear tree, and also to the apricot tree. I dislike the cicada in the pear tree that chirps short and long in summer; I don't like that sound coming from the pear tree. I dislike the birds that peck at the ripe red apricots in the apricot tree. I don't like those birds making the branches and leaves tremble. Only the magnolia is peaceful, the cicada never stops, the birds never stop. I am peaceful in the magnolia's peace.

　　People passing by the door say that the magnolia is beautiful, and the flowers are beautiful. Did the magnolia hear those heartfelt praises?

　　The magnolia has a good living environment and maintains good character standing in front of the door. The gentle breeze blowing from the south passes over its beautiful head and waist time and time again. With each gust of wind, the magnolia grew taller, and with each drop of rain falling on the village, it was washed clean. Each wash brought freshness.

　　Gradually, the magnolia became a symbol of the village.

　　I often sit quietly under the magnolia tree, reminiscing about its past and envisioning its future. I planted the magnolia with my own hands. I dug a small hole in the open space in front of the door, big enough for the magnolia to rest, and planted the nutrients it needed. In the spring, when it sprouted branches and leaves, I felt I could continue my bond with it. In the years to come, it should grow into a large, beautiful tree.

　　Before the magnolia understood this, I disturbed its roots. One stroke of the hoe wounded a branch, and that day, I wounded the magnolia's entire life. The magnolia fell with a crash. The

　　magnolia embarked on the road to home. Along the way, I held the magnolia's branches with my hands, but tears fell drop by drop onto its leaves.

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