Each, with its own story, of branches bent, barks stripped, small limbs climbing, of bees stinging while fruit picking.
Yes, I remember these trees like it was yesterday.
If they could speak, they would cry and laugh and tell about the children that gathered under their branches, etching boys name into its living seeping skin.
The mango tree would have told of losing its fruit before it ripened.
Of fruit bats dangling off branches, seeking refuge after the cyclone.
And the avocado tree that grew so high and wide, when it bore fruit it fell and covered the ground.
Attracting birds and tourists and worms and enterprising children keen to sell a basket for a $1.
I think back of the eucalyptus that greeted us every morning, shedding its leaves and withered bark for us to pick off the ground.
I remember the day my uncle decided to cut that beauty to the ground, to turn into posts of our house in Fagamalo.
And then finding those very posts, lying unused by the house, ...because they were never really needed.
One dumb human decision and we wake up to nothing but a lifeless tree stump.
Rest in peace Eucalyptus tree.
But the one with the colourful stories, is the coconut that stood proudly at the back, away from the houses, and the prying eyes of nosey adults.
That coconut saw busy little people building houses made of grass and sticks and cardboard, filled with earthly cutlery and cakes and pies made of mud and worms and pungent beaten leaves.
But its not just the trees that will tell the full story.
For in the corner of the field, beneath the blooming teuila stalks, sits an ancient rock, oddly shaped, but perfectly flat at the top, where children perch and sing.
Where fights are won and losers are pushed off.
Where one can hear the illicit conversations from the roadside, when you stand tippy toed and hold your breath momentarily.
Unseen and unhear by no one, except the teuila leaves, the ancient rock and the corpse of a eucalyptus tree.