The Oak Tree

A big oak tree, firmly planted in the soil below
So old that many mosses were growing on it
As I climbed through the branches, I imagined
I imagined a life without it
Not being able to hide in its thick, long arms and its paper-like leaves
I sat there imagining how old it was
How long had it been here?
What had it seen?
For all I knew, it was here when my grandmother was a child
As I found a spot higher in the tree to sit
I pulled out my sketchbook
I started doodling
The strokes of my pencil scribbling in all angles, into branches
And the lines started circling
And the circling became ovals, slightly shaded
At the bottom of the creased page, blades of grass grew
They grew around the stumps of the doodles
But as the sun was setting, I was setting too
I had grown tired through the day
And my hand was cramping from holding my pencil
I put my book and my tools back into my scratched-up backpack
I made my way down the oak, placing my feet carefully through the cracked bark
I stumbled down onto the fluffy grass, as my dog ran up to me
He licked my face with his pink, slobbery tongue
I heard my mum call me for dinner, but as I got up off the grass, I noticed something
I looked at the grand oak
It glistened like the doodles on my page
I walked inside with the biggest smile a face could have, my mum said
And as we ate dinner my eyes wondered out the window
For the first time in my life,
I acknowledged the big old tree