The Red Waiting in Front of the House
In front of the shady house, a guava tree grows quietly, a silent witness to the changing seasons and times. Its thick green leaves dance softly in the afternoon wind, while its fruits hang, some still young green, some starting to turn red, and some are ripe and ready to be picked.
Every morning, the fresh aroma of ripe guavas brings back memories of childhood—when we climbed the tree secretly, tasted the fruit straight from the stem, or competed to see who could get the reddest guava.
Among the leaves, guavas grow in clusters, as if sharing stories with each other. Some are still shy about showing their color, while others are already confident in showing their pink glow. Although not all of them are ripe, their existence is like a small promise from nature: that patience will bear sweet fruit, and time never disappoints.
This afternoon, perhaps someone will come carrying a small basin, tiny hands or adults who will pick them carefully, then wash them and enjoy them with a smile—tasting the freshness of guava from their own yard, the result of patience and nature's love.
