The Old Oak

The old oak groaned gently in the breeze. It had stood on this quiet mountain side for years, basking in the soft summer sun and weathering the wild winter storms. Its branches swept the ground, the dense green leaves forming a green cave.

The first time I had seen the tree was on a date. It was my first boyfriend, and I was so in love I couldn’t think straight. He had told me about this, his favorite spot often, and so we were strolling up the mountainside through the cow pastures one late summer afternoon. I can still remember it so clearly. It was that magical golden time of the day, just before the sun started setting. Summer was ending and the long grass in the meadow was drying and had fluffy heads of seed. In this hour, the light bathed the whole world in a soft glow. At the far end of the meadow the great oak tree towered above everything around it. Thinking back, I can’t help but imagine the scene from the tree’s point of view. Another young couple strolling through the field, sitting under or even in its branches, blind to everything but each other, lost in the wonder of getting to know each other. A scene it must have witnessed many times, the age-old story of young love. Yet to us it was all brand new as we gazed into each other’s eyes.

A year later our paths separated. I hadn’t seen it coming and was broken. The hole in my heart stayed for a long time. I lost weight. I avoided our old haunts because the memories were too painful. Winter seemed to come and make itself at home in me – dull and gray and cold. A long barren winter.

***

The cyclists came around the corner of the trail, legs pumping and wind rushing. At a curve in the path the old oak seemed to invite them into that cool green cave for a breather. The three young men stopped in silent agreement and gazed up at the massive branches in amazement. After a while, as is the habit of young men in search of adventure, they clambered up and up, daring each other higher. It became a habit. After racing their bicycles, they came and rested on the lush grass under the old oak, sometimes all of them together and sometimes just one or two.

***

One morning I woke up with the strange feeling that my heart was thawing. Relief flooded me, I could breathe again. I smiled at the pair of doves who nested near the window of my little attic bedroom in the house I shared with four other girls. Winter was ending, outside and in my heart. As the days wore on, the hole in my heart slowly healed. I laughed again and all the memories faded from sharp knives of pain to soft, bittersweet smiles.

As spring bloomed brighter, I felt the desire to visit the tree again. After he had introduced me to it, we had often spent time there. I had gone on my own too, or with some of my girlfriends, spending time with pen and paper on a blanket under the shady canopy. One Saturday morning I made up my mind to go back. I invited a friend who had never seen the tree before and she agreed eagerly.

It was a perfect morning. The meadow was so green it hurt your eyes. Cows gazed at us thoughtfully as we strolled past. The air was filled with birdsong and the humming of bees. In the distance the old oak seemed to stretch out its branches in welcome. My heart lifted. I could still love this place, even without him. My footsteps quickened and at last we flung ourselves onto the grass at the tree’s foot, wiping the sweat from our faces. We spent hours there, talking, sleeping and laughing. Eventually we clambered into the lower branches, talking some more. It was one of those silly, giggly times and we felt like kids again. Before long we were up a lot higher than we had planned to go. It was still great fun. The view was incredible but at last it was time to head home.

We started climbing down but soon realized that there was a spot we were both too short too reach. Pulling ourselves up had been manageable but getting back down was well, impossible. At first it was pretty funny but our giggles soon turned to worried glances. It was a lonely spot and the odds of help turning up was slim.

Suddenly we heard shouts and whoops coming down the hill. A group of cyclists came charging down the hill and came to a breathless stop under the tree. They looked up in surprise as they heard our relieved calls for help. After gallantly helping us down, we all had a good laugh about the situation and a firm friendship started.

***

It was only a few years later that my father and I stood under that same old oak. Everything was set up for a wedding the next day. There were tears in his eyes as he slipped his arm around my shoulders and whispered, “It feels like yesterday...did you know that your mother and I met each other under this very tree?”

My own eyes teared up and I hugged him back. “I didn’t realize that it was this tree.”

***

I can still remember it so clearly. It was that magical golden time of the day, just before the sun started setting. Summer was ending and the long grass in the meadow was drying and had fluffy heads of seed. In this hour, the light bathed the whole world in a soft glow. My father took my arm and we walked towards the old oak. The smiling blue-eyed cyclist held out his big hand, just like the day he helped me out of the branches. We gazed into each other’s eyes as we said our vows and forgot about everyone else. Once again the majestic old oak smiled down on young love, this time tempered with some grief but followed by great joy.

***

So the dance begins again, as another generation finds comfort in its branches and celebrates life under its leaves.