In the early years of my father’s mandarin garden,
the land still carried the weight of the forest it once was.
When you stepped onto it,
your feet didn’t just touch the ground—
they sank slightly, as if the soil was holding on.
It was dense.
Dark.
Almost alive.
After the rain, it would cling to your steps,
soft but strong, like it didn’t want to let go.
Years later, before I left,
I walked that same path again.
The trees were still there.
The garden was still producing.
But the ground… had changed.
When I picked up a handful of soil,
it no longer held together.
It slipped through my fingers—
loose, dry, almost like sand.
There was no resistance.
No weight.
Just something that used to be soil.
I didn’t think much of it back then.
But now, looking back,
I wonder if that was the first sign I ever noticed—
without understanding it.
That something, over time,
had been taken away.
Quietly.
Gradually.
Until only the surface remained.
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