Do Those Old Oaks Miss Us?
by Vaughn Neeld
Do those old oaks miss us? The children who grew up under their large-leaved limbs; where our dad tied a stout hemp rope to a sturdy branch to suspend a tire swing; where we girls played within the protecting shade under the oak trees; where we collected tam-topped acorns to pretend they were tiny denizens of a fairy world? Do those old oaks remember how we plucked locust shells from their trunks as if plucking barnacles from the bottom of a boat? Did they feel relief from the itching from the tiny feet of those cellophane shells? Under the oak trees, in childhood innocence, we stirred up the sandy funnels of ant lions we called doodlebugs digging out the tiny mites to watch them scurry back under the sand. We harvested pop-bead galls from the oaks’ leathery leaves and, with needles and thread, strung together the amber-colored balls into bracelets and necklaces, and when we tired of them, casually crushing them between thumb and forefinger flinging remnants into the wind. There, under the oak trees, the tattered rope still swings, our house long-gone, we girls now old women clinging to memories of a childhood spent happily under the oak trees. Do those old oaks miss us?
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