It's arms encircle me. The same arms that my mother, my uncle, my aunt; the same arms that embraced them. They climbed the tree, knew it's roots, traced the leaves, years before me. Now, I hide behind it's frail limbs, duck into the burrow that it created. The Grandfather Beech tree. That was the name it had. The tree let it's roots run wild, imprinting into the ground, and resurfacing and creating another tree, only feet away. Biking to the tree, and playing house, hide and seek, or maybe we were pirates in search of loot. The branchs hung and swirled around the blocked Wishing well, overgrown by vines. It had became forgotten. The tree remembered it.
We hide in the branches, scared to be out in the open, to be seen by the owners of the house. It was a manor, damp and huge. The tree hid us. A Weeping Willow stood not far from the Grandfather Beech tree. Showing it no mercy, we ran past it, rushing to see our Grandfather. He was older, only his spawn, the resurfaced roots were sturdy. I knew what was coming.
I left. Left to the city, the polluted air comforted me. I did not think about the tree. Until one day. We smiled, only seeing the miniature tree's large bush. Finally, we saw that the start tree was no longer there. Our grandfather, taken away, cut down. GONE.
Only the resurfaced roots remained.
We spread it ashes, the sawdust upon the stump. We barely play in the other trees now. Goodbye, Grandfather.
Years before me, there was a poem. About dear, old Grandfather. My uncle wrote it. And it stood on a brass plaque. It is no longer there.
And so now I write.
I write the story of the Grandfather Beech Tree, like my family did. Years before me.
We hide in the branches, scared to be out in the open, to be seen by the owners of the house. It was a manor, damp and huge. The tree hid us. A Weeping Willow stood not far from the Grandfather Beech tree. Showing it no mercy, we ran past it, rushing to see our Grandfather. He was older, only his spawn, the resurfaced roots were sturdy. I knew what was coming.
I left. Left to the city, the polluted air comforted me. I did not think about the tree. Until one day. We smiled, only seeing the miniature tree's large bush. Finally, we saw that the start tree was no longer there. Our grandfather, taken away, cut down. GONE.
Only the resurfaced roots remained.
We spread it ashes, the sawdust upon the stump. We barely play in the other trees now. Goodbye, Grandfather.
Years before me, there was a poem. About dear, old Grandfather. My uncle wrote it. And it stood on a brass plaque. It is no longer there.
And so now I write.
I write the story of the Grandfather Beech Tree, like my family did. Years before me.
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