My parents have a lovely bay tree that grows stoically in their front garden. It is evergreen, and my mum often nip out to the front garden to pick its leaves for her cooking.  And I, too, each time before I leave this country: I would dry my parents’ bay leaves to take back with me.

Of late, this bay has started sprouting babies all over the garden, including the backyard. And as they’ve already six bay trees in their garden, my father gave me a few.

I was reluctant to take them, for they are scrawny looking, unimpressive things.

“How long will it take them to grow into a nice tree?” I asked.

“You’re too impatient, Jac,” my father chides.

“How long have you had that tree in the front garden?” I persisted.

My parents smiled at each other and exchanged a private glance.

“For as long as we have loved you, Jac,” my mum answered.

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