It was a little more than a decade ago that I bought the Tabubuia rosea and carefully imbedded its roots into the soil, the spot in the garden especially chosen. I stood back smiling and looking at the young plant, to be able in time to have an effusion of blossoms.

I let a couple of years by until I began to voice my disappointment; the tree bore no flowers. Advice came in from all directions. I duly heeded and kept trimming it. I once even cut it to the stub, believing the tender branches would bear the blossoms. “Bang a nail into it!”Mother suggested. I did so wincing, wondering if that would jolt the tree into giving me the blossoms I so much wanted!

I did whatever else that was told to me sometimes prodding and sometimes gently coaxing the tree into action. Those who understood my passion for flowers nodded while listening to my sweet-talk and cajoling the tree into giving me flowers, others watched in disdain.

The years passed and the tree remained unyielding. Real estate boom happened and we were into developing our property. The tree had to go. All of a sudden like a plea not to be cut, the tree gave us five blossoms that summer. I was then reluctant to have the tree chopped.

It was in that instant the idea of transplanting the tree occurred to me. My gardener was confused. “It’s a full grown tree!” he cried. “Grown trees cannot be transplanted!” “No they can be,” I explained speaking of the avenues that come up in far away America. My gardener was impressed. And, wanting to be much like the Westerners, he agreed to transplant the Tabubuia rosea. I carefully supervised the operation.

The tree looked zapped and dry for it. Much like a heart transplant patient would I suppose. The soil around it sometimes appeared loose, we would firm it around the base of its trunk. A month of care went about without much result. Then suddenly a hint of green surprised us just when we had given up hope. Little fresh sprouts of promising branches we spotted much to our delight, but I am still not sure of the blossoms, knowing my tree, they just might never happen.