The Oak

He had watched the Spanish explorers sail by. The French and the English and their great ships, too.  He had also seen soldiers and pirates.  All had rested under his and his father’s great branches.  There were sunny days. And stormy ones, too. He stood as a silent sentinel guarding the ages along the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

He was a Live Oak.  He was ancient, strong and sturdy.  And he was like the special people who lived near his branches.

Camille had killed his father. He had that in common with so many of the people along the Coast. And Katrina had nearly killed him.  Poisonous salt water washed over him for hours. Howling winds took many of his limbs.  He was left broken and battered.

He was weak for years after that hellish storm.  His leaves barely came out — many had predicted his demise. But he recovered.  His remaining branches sprouted new leaves.  His acorns produced new offspring.  Six years later, the ancient Oak was stronger than before.

The Oak looked at the people of the Coast and he realized he had much in common with them. They had done more than survive the storm.  He thought about the words carved on his trunk: What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.

He just stood there silently.  He knew other storms would come. But he knew he was strong enough to survive them, too.