Silky Oak
Rowan MacDonald
I glance over my shoulder, heart racing. They’re still in hot pursuit. I shouldn’t have robbed the bank. I dart to my left, hope to evade them, yet there are too many. My foot stumbles over tree roots, and I collapse to the ground, eat a mouthful of dirt. Cold, silver handcuffs wrap around my wrists.
“Gotcha!” they laugh.
“Think I grazed my knee,” I moan. “Get Mom!”
She walks over and shakes her head. “Cops and robbers again?”
“Tree root got me,” I sigh.
“That will teach you to get ahead of yourself,” she smiles. “Perhaps a life of crime isn’t for you.”
I vow to stay on the straight and narrow, and never get ahead of myself again.
***
When Silky Oak isn’t giving life lessons, she’s my reference for all things tall. The landmark of our street, a beacon of safety, the sign we are home.
She watches us each day; green, fur-like leaves reaching out, begging for new adventures. The taller I grow, the less imposing she seems, yet she remains a constant in the ever-changing landscape of our lives. There on my first day of school, and there when our home breaks apart.
Arguments echo through walls. Someone moves out, another person moves in. Silky Oak remains.
When it gets too much, I escape outside and run towards my friend.
“Get back here!” a man yells, waving his fist.
I shield my body with her trunk, hide from anger billowing down the street. I press my face into the grey bark, its furrowed patterns etched against my cheek. A refuge in turbulent times.
***
Storms rage all around. Silky Oak fights a battle of her own. Branches lie in mangled heaps; leaves scattered across roads.
I watch helplessly as the chainsaw man removes sections, eliminating the canopy. I want to protect her like she has done for me, but it’s hopeless. I stand in silence, out of respect for a wounded friend, and bow my head as body parts are driven away.
***
A golden-orange tinge fills my vision; a sign of new beginnings, a chance for renewal. Silky Oak is changed, yet flourishing; wounded, yet triumphant. I walk home from school each day, place my hand on her, until I’m no longer walking by myself, and have a companion by my side. We hold hands, and once again, the tree bears witness to my racing heart.
We sit beneath her branches, sunlight flickering through leaves.
“I made you this,” I say.
She opens a container, reveals a cupcake, decorated with a heart made of icing.
“That’s so sweet!” she says, leaning towards me.
Silky Oak holds us within her roots, present for another of life’s moments. As my heart thumps, I’m convinced I feel something similar radiating through the furrowed bark.
Our lips meet awkwardly, and for a split second, Silky Oak and the universe cease to exist.
“I like it here,” she says.
“Me too,” I smile.
Rowan MacDonald (he/him) is a writer and musician from Hobart, Tasmania. His words have previously appeared in a variety of journals, including most recently: Sans. PRESS, Paper Dragon, The Ocotillo Review, The Ignatian Literary Magazine, Defunct Magazine and OPEN: Journal of Arts and Letters. His work has also been adapted into short film by New Form Digital. When not writing, he enjoys spending time with his dog, Rosie, sipping cups of tea and reading the words of others.