Acorn

In the final days of treatment, I could not work at the university and was trapped inside the house until recovery.  My hearing was diminished and my sense of taste was gone.  My skin was blistered and bloody, full of scales and scabs. 

Nancy came to stay with me, and we worked jigsaw puzzles as we watched daytime TV.  We ventured out briefly to Whole Foods for provisions or to Elmo's Diner for lunch or to the Chapel for Sunday services.  Yet those simple days were immensely satisfying.   Eventually Nancy had to leave too and I sorely missed her.

One night soon after, there was a storm.  After the winds died down, I went outside to check for rain.  There was no standing water under the dogwood.  No puddles had formed on the low spots along the driveway.  The pavement was wet but it still had the dusty scent of drought.

The garden was littered with the tips of oak trees, bent twigs with clusters of foliage firmly attached, and perfect acorns nestled inside, still green.

The simplest forms of acorn and leaf were the most beautiful.

An oak, stripped to its essential core, is still an oak.  And deep inside each acorn, there is a life that is waiting to be experienced.