Oaks and Melancholy

Oaks and Melancholy

I miss those oaks, those special ancient oaks that were as much mine as I was theirs, the ones that guarded that home set in a park near the hills amidst the rivers and lakes set in the flat lands between the sea and the gulf where my sons grew to manhood, isolated for a few instants from the turmoil and the chaos that surrounded us and which I sought to stave off while seeking untried solutions to issues only vaguely understood.

The oaks remain though all else but the memories lie abandoned.

I loved them and told them so and I perceived that they understood and believed me, and perhaps, that they cared, and it may be that they loved me as well. I love them still and from time to time sense them wondering where I’ve gone and whether or not I’m well, and whether fires still burn within me to right wrongs, those I’ve suffered and those more intangible but much more ubiquitous social ills that seem so all pervasive.

I too wonder if I do or whether the struggle has merely become a habit, but still, …

I miss those oaks, those special ancient oaks that were as much mine as I was theirs, the ones that guarded that home set in a park near the hills amidst the rivers and lakes set in the flat lands between the sea and the gulf where my sons grew to manhood, isolated for a few instants from the turmoil and the chaos that surrounded us and which I sought to stave off while seeking untried solutions to issues only vaguely understood.
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© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2015; all rights reserved

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