This vine, which continues to thrive in the courtyard of our old home, is nearly my elder. It has been my nurturer, my companion during childhood games, my confidante, and the muse of my youth.

On this autumn afternoon, as I watched its yellowing leaves detach with a sense of melancholy, one brushed against my face before gently landing at my feet. As I picked it up and twirled it between my fingers, a wave of nostalgia washed over me.

With tears welling in my eyes, I nestled against the gnarled and twisted trunk, reminiscing about my late mother, who tended to this vine with the same affection she showed me.

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