By Rachel Seah, published July 1st, 2022

Behind the old Saint Andrew’s cathedral, there stand a few sparse saga trees. And beneath 
​those skinny saga trees you will find a gazillion saga seeds.  
Each seed is the size of a pinky nail–a beetle could swiftly cart one away! 
They’re shaped like a teardrop in the corner of the eye, or a miniature beaded nose on a toy 
and though seemingly frail, they do lean quite sturdy, wearing the tear of footsteps and tires 
the shells do not crack, too small to go splat. My nephew and I–well, I call him my nephew–
set out to go scour for these special seeds. Sweating and huffing, bending over like petals, 
digging and pushing past dry blades of grass and uncovering the specks of shiny red.  
I’m told these seeds represent fortune and passion, but to us they are a memory
of dirt digging under the nails  
soil scraped on blanched pants  
tongue run dry to the roof of the mouth. 
Halfway across the world, I look at a handful of these seeds  
and remember.
These trees reside only in tropical countries 
and I remember my nephew there, picturing 
this wonderful moment
behind the old Saint Andrew’s cathedral.