That Old Oak Tree

I live on small plot of land that my mothers family has owned for over four generations. And standing tall, with its roots resting deep in the ground, is an old oak tree. Its branches still blossom with its green leaves, but they hang low, crooked down by the passing of time.

Underneath it, my grandfather purposed to my grandmother. My mother found solace sitting in its limbs as a little girl. My sister would hide in it, only when me and my brother were annoying her. And my dad would grill underneath it on those hot summer days, because it offered him the best shade from the treacherous Alabama sun. Underneath that same oak tree, I wrote my first song.

And now, even as time passes, I still find my self sitting under its branches, with my guitar and a pen and pad. I feel the wind, and I hear its song. I watch subconsciously as the shadows of the branches sway over my pad. I lean back against its bark, and wonder, why can't I be that oak tree.