Under the Oak

A tree stands in front of the window on this side of the house, that blocks the view of sunsets and starsets, and twist and twist it does the stone; tossing leaflets of christ and Looney Toons through the window, and selling milk and honey from the valleys of god that is los angeles across the sea, that I’ve been meaning to cut. It is not my tree, after all, for this house was built by grandfathers and grand-grandmothers whose names I do not know well before this tree was planted by a Joe or a George whose only wish may have been to plant a tree on this exact spot for the people in this house to watch from this window and love all things I despise about it; perhaps this was a tree that has cared for the family I never knew, who fed them Fish-and-Rice, and sheltered them from floods and Spanish storms; or perhaps now that I think about it this tree might have been planted by the family I never knew and this house was built by the Joe or the George instead; or perhaps, the tree was always here all along, standing all in its lonesome self since before the sunset; perhaps I will be charged and fined and be forced to plant another tree again, if I were to cut down this tree, that may or may not really be my own tree. I may be better off taking care of this tree myself, take a seed from it and plant it inside me, and grow little oak children, Timmy and Jimmy, who will complain about oakmeal again for breakfast and will take Jimmy out to soccer practice in my car while I pick up Timmy 20 minutes after school where I get another scolding from Principal Oak about always being late; who I will teach the meaning of their real names and introduce them to the members of the family whose names I do not know; and tell them stories which I myself do not know; and let them wear barongs on their picture day if they want to; and not be disgusted by the brown of their skin; and eat mangos at midnight from the window of the bahay kubo we’d build with the oak.