The Fruit of the Old Oak Tree

By Jalauna Phillips 

When I think of Pawpaw, Charles, Charlie, or whoever he was to you I imagine an old oak tree.

Stretching high into the clouds, grounded with roots that reach for miles.

When I look out,

I see the fruit of the old oak tree.

I see sons. Daughters. Brothers. Grand children.  Great grand children. Great great grandchildren and friends.

During cell division, cells copy their contents and paste them onto daughter cells. Those cells are then identical to the original cell.

When I think of Pawpaw, I see his daughter cell. Mawmaw. Who has his smile and nose. Who has his giving nature. Who has his heart.

When I think of her, I think of my mother. Trina. Who has their smile and nose. Who has their giving nature. Who has their heart.

When I think of her, I think of me. Who has their smile and nose. Who has their giving nature. Who has their heart.

The fruit carries this grief like we carry the heart of of the old oak tree. With open hands and salty tears.

I can’t recall any funny stories or preach you out of your sadness. All I have for you is this grief. That’s pokes me in the middle of the night and when I’m drinking my morning coffee.

So I look to you. The fruit of the old oak tree to hold my hand. To embrace my family. To pray for comfort and to water each other until we stretch high into the clouds and are grounded for miles, enough to honor the Old Oak Tree.