By Alethea Paul
Papa hated the oak tree. The way it was slowly dying.
He was gonna cut it down till Mama put a swing on it. That branch barely held a year.
When a storm split its trunk, it crashed the porch. Papa called it spiteful, but Mama said it was strong. Half still stood ’cause she wanted it to.
One spring, when Mama could barely stand while holding Papa’s arm, I married under it.
It finally fell when she did.
But Papa didn’t let go. He took a slice of concentric circles, polished it up, and carved her name over its rings.
Lovely evocative tale.
Definitely one of my favourites.
Poignant. I like it very much.