Oak

by David Simpson

A man, in his best suit and polished shoes, shuffles with heavy steps through oak leaves.

Head down, hands in his pockets, empty save for the handkerchief which he doubts he

will use.

He is drawn to an oak tree.

His mother’s death, a hammer blow, old fissures cracking open, the lava of long

suppressed memories rushing up. Scalding.

His was a stony home: the diva and the drill sergeant. The father dished out cold, hard

discipline. The mother, a narcissist, sucked up all the energy.

As a teenager he’d taken his bone-weary loneliness to nearby woods.

He’d scoured books about narcissists, hoping to find a way through to her, but they all

agreed…. ‘back off.’ He liked to think it was his humanity that continued to reach out to her,

but he suspected it had only ever been about him, crawling back time and again, like a

beaten dog, longing for love.

Gnarled bark draws his attention, the trees presence gently easing in. A leaf brushes his

face. Lifting his eyes to the branches above, leaves fall, more leaves fall till he is surrounded.

He stands still. The cascade of leaves set off ripples through him.

“You,” he whispers shyly, his hand tenderly touching the oak. A smile lifts his sunken face, his

breathing deepens, muscles relax.

He stands taller.

Catching a leaf, he folds it gently till it crinkles, puts it in his breast pocket, close to his

heart. He surrenders to the oak’s benediction, balm to his jagged grief and walks to meet

the cortège.