Outside my parents' window, there's a sapling that shelters beetles.

On days when the coconut tree, that my grandmother planted a decade ago,

curtains the sun, they flap their wings.

There was I, and further away in black and in blue, there was a sapling.

Years later, when I would no longer live in my parents' room and grow to have my own,

I would disregard all the hours I had spent by the window staring at beetles hiding.

And years later, when I would be thinking about my grandmother,

someone would be wrapping their thumb and fingers around the root of the sapling,

as if they were planting rice.

The coconut tree, that my grandmother planted two decades ago,

no longer curtains the sun.

Years later, when I would find myself mistaking my fathers socks for mine,

I would remember all the hours I had spent in his room.

That same year, when I would be looking outside my parents' window,

I would no longer see the sapling.

The coconut tree, that stands under the sun, serves no purpose

but to remind me of all the days we lived in hunger: of affection and of disregard.

I would still open my grandmothers fridge to see if she had brought something for me,

not realising all the years that've passed since.

Beetles that I befriended, rebelled while I slept—while the sun slept.

Of all the lives the sapling sheltered, only I remained.

Of all the wings and leaves that fell off, I buried with my hands bare.

On days where the sun hides, at the rain I stare, under a shelter I no longer share.

Mustafa Tajwar Araf is a highschool student at Bir Shreshtha Noor Mohammad Public College, Dhaka.