The longest seven days of my life were spent in the shriveled orchard when I was thirteen.
At that time, I believed faith was an unbreakable rock, not yet knowing how sharp this intangible thing could be.
Sharp enough to peel away a person's life so easily.
The blight spread silently like a plague in my hometown, with the orange trees in the orchard losing their green, their leaves curling up like scorched paper.
My parents had long since given up, sitting in the dim house all day, awaiting the same destiny as other orchard owners.
But not me.
Under the oldest orange tree in the orchard, I prayed.
One day, two days, three days...
My knees sank into the soil, my lips cracked from the lack of water.
On the fourth day, I heard the cries of the neighbors; they decided to burn the orchard and move elsewhere.
On the fifth day, my brother tried to pull me into the house, calling me crazy. How could the lofty Divine lower themselves to listen to prayers from people as humble as us?
