In May he was happiest.
A new, beautiful beginning
overflowing with his children. His babies.
They're back. But what about the baby girl,
across the street? Third floor window
of the broken home, covered in tears. Not hers.
With each scream, slap, beating,
she blossoms into bravery. But he doesn't.
With each scream, slap, beating,
one of his babies leaves,
hoping to comfort her little feet,
should she make it outside.
But time is perpetually relentless,
and by November all of his children are gone.
Too many screams, slaps, and beatings,
have left him to fare the winter alone.
Frozen and cold. Alone.
In February he lost an arm in the blizzard.
The baby girl watched from her window,
praying he would recover.
May would come soon.
He stood tall, waiting patiently for his children to return,
sensing the baby girl's need,
for a place to rest her feet if she came outside.
April brought a storm, and he was hit.
The lightning crackled and thrust straight down upon him,
burning him internally as the baby girl cried.
Then it hit her.
Shocked, she was thrown through the window,
onto the ground where his babies had been nearly a year before.
She did not utter a word, nor a cry.
She landed with a thud before him.
Then he cried.
They only had one more month to wait,
his babies would come home. But it was over.
As his last joint snapped he began to fall.
Landing atop the baby girl, shielding her from further harm.
"I am sorry," he whispered.

"I was only a tree."

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