My father planted many kinds of trees around our house, both fruit-bearing and ornamental. Each season brought a different display — bright summer flowers, soft spring blossoms, and petals that drifted through the air like quiet celebrations. We played beneath their branches, climbed them whenever we could, and watched hired climbers harvest the fruits that grew alongside the blooms. Most afternoons, I sat on the porch, looking up at a sky softened by flowers. Surrounded by all that color and movement, I lived inside my dreams.