The Chocolate Tree
By Swetha Amit
The first time I told Mama I wanted to grow a chocolate tree, she laughed. She shook her glossy dark curls and threw back her head, showing her pearl-white teeth. She was watering the red roses, and the grass squelched under her garden slippers. I heard her tell them how much she loved them.
You grow roses and lemons, but you cannot grow chocolate? Chocolate is also fruit. I argued and trailed behind her. I watched the roses dangle as Mama continued talking. Mama said the roses were special and were given to her by her mother. She said they could keep us safe and guard her secrets. What secrets was Mama telling them?
The one time I plucked a rose, it was the day before my birthday. The petals were strewn on my tiny palm, and eventually fell to the ground. Mama reprimanded me and sent me to bed, saying eight-year girls should be more considerate. Flowers can cry, she said. Oh, why did you hurt them? I did not get any cake the next day. Were the roses more important to Mama than I?
Papa was mostly traveling for work. The last time he came home, we watched the birds in the woods and played frisbee. Papa and I later munched on the chocolates with different nuts. Crunch, crunch, crunch. What a lovely feeling. Are these nuts chocolate seeds? I asked. Papa didn't laugh when I said I wanted to grow a chocolate tree. Instead, he hugged me tight and said we would eat chocolates from my little tree the next time he came home.
After he left, I tried to help Mama water the roses. I tried to touch the petals gingerly. The thorns pricked my fingers. Mama failed to notice. I was forced to suck the blood, imagining it as human ketchup.
Eager to eliminate the bitter taste, I rummaged through the refrigerator and grabbed the little packet of chocolates. I munched on them, letting the sweet taste swirl inside my mouth. Then I spat out the nuts and cleaned them. Later, I buried the nuts in the mud and watered them. When Mama saw me, she laughed and said chocolate trees don't exist. Not a day would go by when I wouldn't talk to my little patch of ground and water it. I almost shrieked in delight to see a tiny spurt of growth.
While walking back home, I fell, scraped my knee, and watched blood spill. I treated the bruise with a hose pipe, hoping the gush of salty water would wash the pool of blood. Mama was immersed in her world of petals. A wave of fury washed over me as I watched those bloody red flowers dance in the air. They were gloating over winning Mama's affection over me. The pain felt like a thousand thorns pricking my chest.
After sunset, I stomped into the garden when they were asleep. I plucked all their petals, stepped on them, and fed them to the fish in the pond. The next day, my hands looked like the dried red petals had been planted there. My cheeks burnt as tears trickled down my face. My mother gasped at the sight of the dead roses. You have destroyed the remnants of my mother and grandmother. Their spirits resided in those petals. Now you have incurred their wrath. She cried and slapped me hard.
That night, I tossed and turned while a storm brewed outside. I prayed hard for my little sapling's survival and drifted off to a deep slumber. I woke up to the sun piercing my eyes and watched the ocean-blue sky hover above. I stepped outside and walked around the garden. I stopped in my tracks and stared in wonder. In place of the sapling was a tree. Leaves dangled from its branches, and a peculiar brown fruit nestled between the cluster of leaves. I plucked one and took a bite. The sweet taste of chocolate lingered inside my mouth. I sat under the tree and waited for papa to come home.
THE END
Author Bio: Swetha is an Indian author based in California and a recent MFA graduate at University of San Francisco. She has published works across genres in Atticus Review, Oranges Journal, Toasted Cheese, and others (https://swethaamit.com). She is a reader for The Masters Review, and a staff writer for Fauxmoir lit mag. Her two stories have been nominated for the 2022 Pushcart Prize. She is an alumni of the 2022 Tin House Winter Workshop and the Kenyon Review Writers’ workshop.