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Hannah

Father Tree


My dad is like a tree. Layered with the years that

grew him into a wizened oak. Rooted

in the soil of Nesbit, Mississippi and fiercely

devoted to the memories of his past. To the little shack of

a house that is now one with the woods – invaded by kudzu and

and stillness. You’d never know a whole life

was lived there.

If you were to saw my dad in half,

you would see the layers

that reveal the years gone by. Each ring a testament

to how he wraps his pinky finger

around my mother’s or how he cries at old country songs.

Some of the rings are barely noticeable

from the years that he withered away

in a job that he hates. But even though he got home

late he still had time to tuck me in,

and give me butterfly kisses. You can always count

on a tree to cover the ground with gold in the fall

and shine like diamonds in the snow.

Just the same - I know that my father tree

will not uproot and abandon me.

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