That Old Oak Tree

I remember the old Oak tree full of broken twigs the color taupe, its leaves had disappeared with its youth. It was the only tree in my backyard. I remember recognizing how ancient the tree was after I grazed my small hand on its trunk. It sliced my finger open. My finger was red. I whimpered for help but you were too busy coloring mom’s face with black and blue circles to pay me any mind. Mom finally came to my rescue. She cleaned my wounded hand and placed a pretty purple Band-Aid around my pinky. When she was done, I stayed outside. She went inside. She said she had to get ready for work. I played away from that Oak tree.