The Rotten Oak in My Mother’s House

[Content warning, mild domestic violence, mental health topics]

The acrid scent of gasoline hangs in the air, mingling with the earthy fragrance of the once-grand oak tree, now reduced to scattered remnants. Gnarled branches of what was once a steadfast presence, lies defeated. The severed trunk whispers of rot and dis-ease.

The crackle of a downed power line, snagged by a branch, punctuated the quiet. James stood in the wreckage’s shadow, his weathered face illuminated by a flickering match. Shaking, he lit a stale cigarette. He took a long drag, then said aloud to no one, “Fifteen years.”

This oak, ancient when his parents bought the house, was more than just a tree. His father imbued it with significance, whispering tales of hope to his pregnant mother, envisioning a new life in the shadow of its sturdy branches. A symbol of strength, endurance, and the promise of a fresh start for the growing family.

Even as a young boy James felt the weight of responsibility for the tree. It was his duty to rake its leaves in the crisp fall air, a chore that connected him to the cyclical nature of life. The acorns, once playthings, serve as reminders of the world—before it was twisted.

But the borer beetle came uninvited, infecting the oak with decay. In parallel, unseen forces infiltrated James’ life—misunderstood signs that grew unchecked. The once-strong tree, like James, bears the scars of a silent struggle.

Flashes of violence twirl with the smoke—the weight of a chair leg in his hands, a man silent and unmoving at his feet. James doesn’t remember his rage, only calling the police afterward, knowing consequences would arrive.

Fifteen years of consequences.

James sits amidst fresh destruction, sirens wailing in the distance. He is resigned, ready for whatever comes next. The cigarette trembled between his fingers as a police cruiser turned down the street. He has no explanations left. Only a longing to escape this unfamiliar world.

***

It was New Year’s Day. An arbitrary day set for his release. Same as any other. Except today, James had stood outside the prison gates for at least an hour, unsure of where to go.

Officer Chthon, having just finished his shift, initially walked past James. He then turned. Their eyes met for a moment. James looked away first. “Need a ride into town, James?” the guard asked.

James nodded—he hated the disrespect given the guard because of his odd name. It was “Thon” not “Cheet-on” or “Cheeto.” It wasn’t kind to tease the man. Chthon didn’t deserve the insults.

Officer Chthon’s eyes held a mix of sympathy and curiosity. Perhaps there was more to the officer than the uniform suggested—a man who’d seen the nuances of human frailty. He’d seen men fail, men at their worst, who lashed out because they had nothing left to control. He was firm, and kind, to all. Ten minutes into the ride, he said, “Brother, this is going to be tough for you.”

James didn’t know what to say. He had nothing to model from, this was his first time getting out of prison. His mind was too full of the brightness, and the oppressive openness to focus. Also, the noise of the radio was distracting, high pitched foreign voices sang warbles, like birds.

“Keep your nose clean and take your time. Change is hard.”

They drove in silence along the highway. James stared out the window in disbelief. He searched for the industrial buildings that had once marked his territory. Disorientation gnawed at him as sleek structures replaced the familiar. Landmarks were gone. The highway had newly textured walls. As they drove, he watched young trees swaying in the wash of passing trucks. His hands, usually steady, betrayed a tremor. James forced himself to be normal. The rough neighborhood of his childhood had transformed into sleek condos and trendy shops. James’s legs bounced, he pinched his thigh to stop the wiggle.

“Oh brother, you live in a delightful part of town!” Chthon said as he pulled up to the corner store at the head of James’ street.

This was never a nice part of town.

The corner store was in the same building, but the branding had changed, and it was…clean.

“Happy new year brother.” Chthon was holding a faded Hello Kitty notebook. He reached for a pen from his cup holder, paused a moment, then put it back again. “Just stay out of trouble.”

“Thanks.” James couldn’t think of anything else to say. He waved as the officer drove off. Then turned to the store. For years he’d dreamed about his favorite soda pop. The door chimed at his entrance.

James shuffled uncomfortably under the harsh store lights, the flickering bulbs created a disconcerting rhythm. The hum of refrigerators was discordant. James hummed in tune with one, then the other, feeling the notes reverberate and interfere.

He had a bundle of small bills from when he was taken into custody—thinking he’d be able to use the police station candy machine. It was all his money in the world. His eyes darted away from the cashier.

The clerk shook his head. “Card or mobile pay only, man.”

James’s shoulders slumped.

The cashier’s expectant gaze met his, but the unspoken rules of a digital age left James adrift. His attempt to pay, a silent plea for simplicity, and his one lasting dream, squashed. Clutching his unquenched thirst, he turned to the open, unfamiliar world.

His street still had the same name, but that was a fleeting comfort. The crumbling houses facing the highway had been replaced by a sprawling park. Children laughed as they played. The sight filled James with an unfamiliar feeling—hope.

Just ahead, before the crossroad, was the home his mother left him when she passed. James thought of his mother’s sole visit some fourteen years ago. She brought his daughter. Little Sophie spent the whole time sitting between her grandmother’s legs, making popping noises by patting her cheeks with her tiny kid hands.

Maybe with the house, a reunion? He couldn’t fathom how to get in touch. He didn’t even have his ex-wife’s number.

But as he approached the property, his hopes sank. The old home, small and rotted amidst sleek new developments, was an eyesore from another era.

James ran his hand along the peeling paint of the front door. He reached for the doorknob, only to find it locked. Of course, it should be locked. This was his house, but only in name. He rested his forehead against the door. It felt more than physical—it was a portal to a time when things made sense. He looked through the dusty glass. The furniture was covered in stain repellant plastic, yellowed with age. He imagined if he were to sit on them, the plastic would fall into shards.

James circled the house, becoming overwhelmed. The house was a time capsule. Once-cozy rooms seem foreign and chaotic now. The back door was also locked.

The openness of this new world left him unmoored, yearning for bland concrete walls. He went back to the front to sit, to think. He lowered himself into his father’s old rocking chair. The creak of wood, at least, was familiar.

James thought in circles about his old routines, the details of life were teetering. Food, drink, a bed, a nap, waving at neighbors… What comes first? How does one live?

Water. The thought surfaced. Showering with no one around. That was appealing—a bath would be better. The weight of water pressing down on him…James closed his eyes and imagined hot water spilling over the edge of the bathtub. Then, how his skin will turn lobster-red from the heat. He slid down, shifting his weight as he imagined he’d do in the bath.

The old rocking chair gave way. Worn rattan tore from the frame.

James’s backside slid through the seat to the weathered porch boards.

Righting himself, he stared at the scratch along the aluminium siding. A rotten oak branch had damaged the house. Another thing to fix.

With a sigh, James emptied the mailbox, tossing anything without a stamp to the floor. He paused at a pizza ad, then let it slip from his hand. The papers taped to the front door came next. James grabbed a handful. The tape pulled layers of paint from the wood. He skimmed the bold-typed letters. Each was a fine from the resident’s association. The amounts were shocking—thousands owed for the overgrown lawn, lack of upkeep, and damaged exterior.

James’s eyes settled on the citation for the fallen branch. Why would that result in a fine? His dead mom didn’t choose to let the branch fall. He glanced at the tree, its branches gnarled from neglect.

He walked over, spotting the initials “J + A” inside a crude heart. His fingers followed the grooves as if deciphering a code. The initials, made with a precision that bordered on obsession, stirred a cascade of memories. He thought of Alicia on the day nearly two decades ago when he carved them into the tree. High school sweethearts. She made the heart.

The memory ached.

It was a simpler time. They were newlyweds, basking in young love.

The birth of their baby girl, Sophie, should have been his happiest day. But James sat in stunned silence, feeling only a factual detachment. The child had to be pressed into his arms. That year passed with almost no memories.

After losing his job, James struggled to find work. He lacked the gift of being a “people person” like Alicia. His father was the same. Father kept suggesting a career in engineering. They both knew going to college, even for an associate degree, would’ve been beyond their means. There were no good choices. James had trouble focusing. Nothing worked out.

When three-year-old Sophie still refused to talk, the doctors vaguely referenced “unspecified developmental delays.” Strain grew as James withdrew deeper into himself, losing entire weekends to Star Wars movie marathons, his sole comfort. A string of arguments blurred together.

The day his marriage shattered stuck in his mind. Tiny details overwhelmed him, the scrape of a fork on a plate, Sophie’s cries, Alicia’s rising shouts. When a door slammed, James lashed out in a violence he doesn’t fully remember. He’d only asked if a bottle was recyclable. How did that start the fight?

James moved in with his parents. Six months later, Alicia was seeing someone else. “That ass-hat, Kilian,” James spat. The red haze had descended once more, ending with Kilian’s lost eye and a chair leg in James’s hand.

At his trial, he agonized to express remorse, but froze on the witness stand, words trapped in his throat. Without his testimony, the narrative quickly spun against him. In handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit, James was, strangely, free.

***

James circled to the back of the house, looking for a window to shimmy through. He’d have to break in. He intended to pick a small window, something cheap to replace.

The tool shed caught his eye. He’d need something to break the window. He pushed open the warped wooden door, the rotted wood slid off the rusted screws, completely ignoring the padlock’s rattling protest.

Inside, more memories surfaced—his father’s tools were always laid out in meticulous order. He remembered the belt-whipping James received for moving a screwdriver out of place. A single screwdriver to fix, what was it…a ball that counted how many times it was bounced? He remembered the gray and black ball better than the whipping. The punishment far outweighed the crime. It was the only time his father laid hands on him. His father wasn’t a monster or a bully. He was a child in a powerful body—too proud or self-deluded to grow up.

Now, these tools belong to James. He brushes his fingers over the rust-pocked handles and blades. Part of him longs to take a large screwdriver, use it to pry open a window, keep things orderly, efficient.

But his hand drifts to that chisel. The one he used to carve those letters.

The part of his psyche, still chaotically upended from prison, has other ideas. His hand drifts across the wall to the larger tools.

James’s hands close around the chainsaw’s grip. He yanks the starter cord, and it sputters to life, roaring in the small space. This will make a different order, he thinks. The kind that’s been rotting him for fifteen long years.

He strides with purpose to the front yard, chainsaw spewing exhaust.

Squeezing the trigger makes the beast roar. He aims at his initial, wanting to replace the ‘J’ with a large ‘K’ for Kilian. But the saw tip bucks and jumps, resisting the plunge.

He switches to hacking at the trunk, the roaring engine drowning out his branching thoughts.

The chainsaw becomes an extension of James’ rage. He’s no longer in control as it digs into the rotten oak. Where the teeth bite, splinters and water spray. James squints against the debris pelting his face.

Piece by piece, the tree is dismantled by the relentless, purring blade. A fierce tiger in his control—power flows through him.

Control—yes, finally.

James is in charge.

Wood piles around James’ feet, water from the tree’s hollow core soaks his shoes. With a final determined cut, the oak succumbs to gravity’s pull and topples toward the house. The crash reverberates down the block.

James stands numb, his hands still gripping the angry, noisy beast.

He drops the heavy, smoky chainsaw.

It chokes itself out.

He walks along the oak’s trunk bisecting the house, sparks popping behind him from the severed electrical cable on the road. His father’s chair, impaled by a branch and lifted from the porch, rocks unsteadily in the wind. A ghostly witness, James imagines, slides to the ground, disappointed in his son.

James sits heavily on the porch amidst the ruins, his legs shaking. He fishes out the fifteen-year-old pack of yellow, crumpled cigarettes. It takes several tries to strike the match, his hands unsteady.

As he smokes, clarity settles. When his mom had visited, she told him father had been diagnosed with Aspergers. She also said something about him taking things literally.

James responded, “no, that’s kleptomania.” Only now he understands why mom laughed.

James thought of Sophie’s “Unspecified” diagnosis that so aggravated him. How she could read before she could talk, and of her lack of eye contact. Similarly, his dad never looked into his eyes.

James could remember reading novels in first grade. That wasn’t normal. He was teased, so he stopped reading. He feared it the same for Sophie.

James thought on his own desire to organize his toys, staging games with extremely rigid rules. He never kept friends for long. Maybe his frustrations were related to his dad’s? Sophie’s? Maybe his short fuse was related?

Too late now. The sirens draw near, his second chance at life was destroyed. He’ll return to the concrete walls and the ordered routine. There will be no redemption here. Only smoke, oak, and loss.

The first police cruiser pulls up, keeping a distance from the downed wire. A second blocks the road.

Soon, an officer approaches on foot, skirting the debris. “This your house, sir?”

James’ shaking leg is distracting him from the cigarette. It tastes awful, stale, bitter. His gaze returns to the oak, and in its demise, he recognizes the tangled roots of his own struggles. The borer beetles of societal norms had invaded his life, leaving him to grapple with an eroded sense of self.

“How are you doing today?” the officer asks. James blinks in confusion. That question never made sense. In prison, inmates don’t inquire about your wellbeing. It’s just anger, or being mean, or nothing. James misses nothing.

More cruisers arrive. Neighbors are ushered back inside their sleek, orderly homes. James knows he doesn’t belong here, not among the freshly painted fences and ‘mobile pay’.

When the officer repeats, “Come this way, sir,” gesturing away from the wire, James stands. He’ll just kick the wire aside and keep walking—it can’t be that dangerous.

But as he nears the downed line, the officer tackles James.

The power transformer’s hum ceases with a click. James’ head felt clearer. That noise had filled his childhood in annoyance. How could anyone stand to spend time on that porch? The noise was unbearable.

James opened his eyes. The brown grass was still wet from the fetid oak-water. He’d only stepped a couple of paces from the porch. It felt like he should be much closer to the sidewalk. Now, his head is pressed to the ground, facing the oak. Fresh scratches from where the chainsaw skittered up the ‘J’ are mocking him. The love cut into the oak, now long gone, leaves a legacy of unspoken struggles. The oak’s weight settles into the house, its last sigh, a lament for both nature’s cycles and his journey.

James is lifted by his arms. He doesn’t struggle.

James is pushed into the squad car. He doesn’t struggle.

James looks away from the neighbors’ horrified faces. With his self-loathing, he struggles.

Time passes with James locked in his head, fighting fights that were long over. Rehearsing fights that may never come. Not knowing what to want, not knowing…anything.

Sitting quietly in a car was enough. A comfort earned.

There is a place to rest his arms behind his back. Coming up with things like that would be fun. Maybe he should have been an engineer.

A pregnant teen runs up to the cruiser, yelling, “Dad!”

James doesn’t look up, his little Sophie, only four, doesn’t speak.

“He needs help, please!” the young woman cries.

The car door separates James from the open space. It felt right. Order will return.

James will find his place again.