A Tree for Later

Grandfather Yerlan planted a thin little apple sapling in the yard. It was no thicker than a pencil, and just three leaves trembled on it.

His grandson Sanzhar laughed. "It's tiny! When will it have apples?"

"In about seven years," said Grandfather, pressing the earth down around the sapling. "I might not be here to taste them. But you will be. And your children."

Sanzhar stopped laughing. Seven years! He was only six himself. That was a whole lifetime!

"Grandpa, why plant a tree if you have to wait so long?"

Grandfather didn't answer straight away. He took his grandson by the hand and led him to the old poplar by the gate. The poplar was enormous. Even two grown-ups together couldn't reach around its trunk, the wind rustled in its leaves, and sparrows chattered in its branches. In summer its shade was always cool, and the whole family drank their tea there.

"My grandfather planted this poplar," said Grandfather Yerlan. "When he planted it, I was little, just like you. He knew he would never sit in its big shade. But we do. Every summer."

Sanzhar tipped his head back and looked up at the tall treetop for a long time. Then he went back to his little sapling and stroked one of its leaves very gently.

From that day on, Sanzhar helped. He watered the little tree with his small watering can, loosened the soil around it and pulled out the weeds. In autumn he and Grandfather wrapped the thin trunk in sacking, and in winter Sanzhar stamped the snow down around it so the hares and mice wouldn't gnaw the bark.

The tree grew slowly, a little at a time. Sometimes Sanzhar thought it wasn't growing at all. Then Grandfather cut a notch in its wooden stake, level with the top of the little tree. A year later the top of the tree was higher than the notch, and they both laughed.

In the third year the leaves grew thicker, and a ladybird came to live among them. In the fifth spring the apple tree blossomed for the first time. The flowers were white and pink and delicate, and they smelled of honey. Bees hummed over them, and Sanzhar sat on the bench nearby, breathing in that smell.

That evening he and Grandfather drank their tea right under the blossoming apple tree, and petals drifted down into their cups.

In the seventh year, at the end of summer, the first apple hung on a branch. It was rosy on one side and green on the other, smooth and cool. Sanzhar, a big boy by now, picked it and carried it to his grandfather.

Grandfather Yerlan held the apple in his palms as if it were treasure. Then he took out his little knife and cut it in half. One half for himself, and one half for his grandson.

"I made it after all," Grandfather smiled, taking a bite. "Sweet. A good tree is planted for someone else, Sanzhar. But sometimes it gives an apple to the one who planted it, too."

That summer Sanzhar planted two more saplings beside it. They were as thin as pencils, and three leaves trembled on each. Sanzhar knew he would have to wait a long time. These trees he was planting for whoever would come after. He watered them with that same little watering can.

That evening the wind rustled softly in the leaves of the old poplar and the young apple tree. Listening to that rustling, Sanzhar fell asleep, and he dreamed of a big orchard full of apples.

Goodnight.