under the old fig tree
It became our tree. The big old fig tree, that wound its roots deep into the solid earth beneath us, twisting its arms way up into the sky, reaching for something we couldn’t see.
What was up there? Was it beautiful. I hope so.
As the minutes haunt their passing of time, a member of the clan could always be found under that tree. Like a force, a steadying constant.
If you weren’t by Isaac, you were there – an unspoken rule. Everyone accounted for. Should it happen.
Fear bound me to his bedside as much as love.
But I was lead away to sunlight; finding myself there without recollection of the travel. I was told fresh air was good for me. Maybe I need that tree.
Wrapped under my fathers wing, we sit in silence.
Looking but not seeing, staring without a blink, you know if you close your eyes even for a fragment of time you’ll see the unbearable.
Then tears streaming down your face, but you can’t remember when you started crying. Or maybe you never stopped.
Was it out of sheer desperation, reaching for some shred of hope, I didn’t know, a plea I guess more than anything?
I bolt upright like I’ve had an ingenious thought I must share without delay, I look to dad, my throat hoarse from exhaustion, lack of use, burnt by the salt of my tears, I croak
But maybe he’ll be OK?