Aloe Vera

A few months ago, when I returned home from a trip to my country, I was walking up the stairs of my apartment when I saw a dry, lifeless flowerpot. Its soil was cracked, and there was no sign of life left in it. But in one corner, a small green leaf of an aloe vera plant had fallen out of the pot, still alive, still holding on. It was as if both the pot and that little leaf were waiting for someone to decide their fate.

I picked it up and gently placed it in a bowl of water. Days and nights passed, and I did nothing but watch it patiently. Slowly, its roots began to grow, its stem stretched upward, and new leaves appeared.

It was as if it had fallen and learned to rise again, as if it had faced death just to understand the meaning of life. In each of its leaves, I could feel a whisper saying, “to be born again.” But one day, it stopped growing. It felt as though its soul had reached its limit in water and was calling out for soil, the soil that smelled like home, like returning to one’s homeland.

Yesterday, when I saw it again, it was no longer that small, fragile sprout. It stood tall in a pot that now seemed too small for it. Its leaves were wide, its green deeper and more alive than ever. It looked as if it had absorbed all the silent struggles and patient days just to reach this moment, standing proud and calm in the sunlight. To me, that pot was no longer just a plant. It was a sign of patience, of hope that never fades, of rebirth, of the faith that life can bloom again, even after the driest seasons.