Someone said, “Somewhere in the world there’s a tree that sprouted the same day you were born and has been growing along with you.”
When I first heard it, it made me wonder: what if I actually belong to the place where the tree sprouted?
How big is it?
What if every paper in it is actually a beautiful moment that I forgot, but kept there as a memory—
a memory that I won’t be able to remember in the future?
What should I call that tree? Maybe Franky.
Why? I don’t know. I’ve had this name in my mind growing up, I don’t know where it came from!
Maybe from the same place where my tree is.
Is my tree growing, or still trying to survive?
Is it around beautiful roses or in a big city?
Some questions don’t have an answer—like my beautiful Franky.