PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
When Gloria thought of the oak tree, she thought of Grandfather.
Both gnarled by age and weather, carrying the scars of ancient wounds, of injuries which – no matter the suffering – they survived. They grew frisky in the spring, snuggled to near-stupor as the days grew short and the leaves lay about in golden dunes.
The morning after the storm she knew. When she saw that heart of oak split, scorched black to its pith by lightning. She knew.
At nine her phone rang, grandma with the news – it was sudden, a stroke in his sleep.
Spring would miss them both.