Oak Tree

The annual Santa Ana winds are commencing in the canyon again. The trees finally getting a good clean. A sigh of relief. As the dust brushes off the leaves and whirls through the winding roads, the firemen on full alert, I let bumps rise on my arms and my hair blow all wild. Today marks a day I have lived many times before; an autumn Sunday, a quick moment to reset and reflect before the I’m again submerged in the weekday mindset. I miss the feeling of prickly oak leaves braising my finger tips, and the blinding sunlight as my father throws me up into the air near the perimeter of our backyard in Hancock Park. So much imagination created there, so much beauty viewed with a small eye. I should like to let myself feel it now, let Lola be Lola again, let my memories fulfill me like they’re meant to, for they happened and I am grateful for that. Tell me a story, oak tree, and let me be enveloped in your treachurous adventures and ancient origin. Teach me about all the death around you yet how you’ve managed to stay alive for so long, despite being so dry. Tell me I’m doing this right, but let me be undeniably and innately myself as I’m figuring it all out.