The golden light of the late afternoon sun filtered through the branches of an ancient oak tree, casting soft shadows over the rows of headstones. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, sending tiny acorns tumbling onto the grass below.
Oakley stood beneath the mighty tree, his hands tucked into the pockets of his long coat. In his hand, he held a small acorn, turning it over gently between his fingers. It was smooth and warm from the sun, and for a moment, he was lost in thought.
This tree had stood here for generations, watching over those who had come and gone. It had witnessed the quiet footsteps of mourners, the hushed whispers of memories being shared, the laughter that sometimes broke through the sorrow. Just as this tree had roots stretching deep into the earth, so too did the stories of those laid to rest beneath its branches.
Oakley remembered standing here as a child, beside his father, in Southern Cemetery. They had visited often—his father’s parents, grandparents, and brother all rested here. Despite the solemn reason for their visits, young Oakley had always looked forward to them. There was something peaceful about this place, something comforting.
As a child, he had loved watching the squirrels dart between the trees, chasing each other playfully across the headstones. He had marvelled at the way they buried their acorns, always trusting that one day, they would return to find them. His father had smiled at his curiosity, watching as he followed the squirrels with wide eyes, and had once said, "Even here, life carries on, Oakley. You just have to know where to look."
And as they walked together, his father would tell him stories—stories of the people buried there, people who were more than just names on stone.
His father’s brother, gone far too soon, had been his best friend. They had shared everything—secrets, scraped knees, mischievous childhood adventures. “We were always together,” his father would say with a wistful smile, his voice filled with both love and loss. “If you saw one of us, you knew the other wasn’t far behind.”
He would speak of his grandmother, who had been the heart of their family. “She was the kindest soul you’d ever meet,” he’d say, his voice soft with memory. “She made the best soup, always knew the right thing to say, and never let anyone leave her house without a full belly and a warm heart.”
And then there was his father’s own father, Oakley’s grandfather, a man of great wisdom and few words. “He wasn’t one for long speeches,” his father had said, “but when he spoke, you listened. He taught me how to be strong, but also how to be gentle.”
Oakley would listen to these stories, letting them weave pictures in his mind—images of laughter and love, of family bonds that stretched far beyond the reach of time.
"Every farewell is a story, Oakley," his father had told him once, kneeling down beside him and placing a small acorn in his tiny hands. "From little acorns, life’s memories grow. Those we love never truly leave us; they live on in the stories we share and the love we pass down."
Now, as Oakley stood beneath the same tree all these years later, he felt the weight of those words. His father was no longer here, but his lessons, his kindness, and his unwavering respect for the departed remained. And just as his father had done for him, Oakley now guided others through their own farewells, helping them plant the seeds of remembrance.
He knelt down and pressed the acorn into the earth at the base of the tree, covering it gently with soil. A symbol of remembrance, of life continuing, of love enduring.
As he rose, he looked out over the cemetery, watching families visiting loved ones, placing flowers, whispering stories into the wind. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a squirrel, clutching an acorn, scurrying up a tree. Oakley smiled softly.
Memories, like acorns, grew into something greater.
And just like this ancient tree, the stories of those we love would stand tall forever.
— From Little Acorns, Life’s Memories Grow.
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