Outside of my window stands a mighty towering oak tree. It is more than just a part of this town; it is also a part of my life. The weathered and twisted branches, covered in places by forest green moss, lend to the magnificent beauty of the tree. The vibrant colors of fall have given themselves to the oak in hues of yellow, red and brown, creating a
collage of multicolored leaves. Bird nests adorn the many limbs like jewels on a queen. A cathedral of sorts, it is worshiped in awe by all that pass by. It has stood as a tribute to its endurance for over two hundred and fifty years. My grandfathers walked below its branches as did theirs before them.
Reminiscing back over the past eighty-five years of my life, I find that many of my most enjoyable times revolve around the tree. I spent many days of my youth climbing the old oak. With it’s huge branches enveloping me like a giant fortress, the roughness of the ashen gray bark underneath me, and the musty smell of the dampness of spring, I felt the safety and security that only a seven year old boy can feel in that situation.
Oh, how I longed for the picnics in the shade amidst the summer’s heat, the tree providing cool refuge from the sun. It was a nine-year olds dream. I would drift lazily off to sleep in the shade with the taste of fried chicken and ice cold watermelon still lingering in my mouth. Above me the birds would serenade my with their beautiful music; their songs all lullabies of sorts.
I can still remember my first kiss on a blustery winter’s day, the snow filtering through the limbs, my fingers tingling both from cold and the exhilaration of the moment. I was thirteen years old at the time and feeling the effects of my first case of puppy love. The sweet smell of her perfume lingered in the air around me. Her lips so soft and tender, barely touched my own, a sweet and innocent kiss that left my head spinning. I carved our initials, GS and RG, surrounded by a heart into the thick bark of the tree that day. I can see the carving now, even though the bark has grown around it and distorted the letters.
At age nineteen, I married my sweetheart under that very same tree, the wind gently blowing her vale of white. She was a vision of beauty, with flowers strung through her hair. I was so nervous that I lost our rings and we laughed together about it for many years to come.
After the birth of our children, we spent many a lazy afternoon under the trees shade, watching them run and play, climbing the branches as I too had done as a child, their faces shinning bright with smiles; the sound of their laughter breaking the stillness of the late afternoon. What fun we had beneath that tree, wasting away the day on a blanket in its coolness.
And two years ago, after the death of my wife, I would go to that spot to muse. It was almost as though I could feel her presence there, even at times catch a whiff of her favorite perfume.
I turn away from the window of my lackluster hospital room to pick up a copy of our local paper, The North Ridge News. The front page carries a picture of the oak tree, but the starkness of the black and white print of the paper does not do its elegance justice. The accompanying article, a death sentence of sorts, depicts that on October 3rd, two weeks from today, the tree will be cut done to make room for an additional hospital wing.
As I read the article, my heart is filled with sadness. I feel a teardrop glistening down my cheek, a tear for the loss of such a majestic wonder and a tear for the loss of the innocence of my youth. I hope that I have left this place before the construction crew comes to destroy the tree, for you see, I too will be gone from this earth soon. My death sentence came a few weeks ago as I was diagnosed with terminal cancer and now my days are likewise numbered. So, even as the oak and I have spent our lives together, it seems as though we will be ending them together too.
I lay the newspaper back down on my over the bed table. I turn once again to gaze out my window. Once more taking in the grace and beauty of the of the old oak tree, I bow my head in adoration, and bid goodbye to a lifelong friend.
Poetry and prose
