Pic Perfect

Ninety four years old is a long time. Most people don’t even surpass eighty in this day and age, but somehow I’ve made it to ninety four, lucky enough to have most of my memories still. I glare at the old oak tree outside my bedroom window, as I hear my family scramble downstairs to set up my party. The tree never got weak, never slumped over like the other ones in the yard. It stood tall, through everything it has seen. When I was younger my father and I would hang up dozens on bird houses, I insisted because I didn’t want a single bird to go homeless. Birds of all kinds would flock to the tree, beautiful cardinals and blue jays. It was my favorite part of the year when we hung up those bird houses, there was a certain beauty in it. As the years went by more and more birds came and went, I almost remember every last one. My family says this is all I remember, the tree with the birds. I hear them whisper and say it’s the only thing I haven’t forgotten, but I don’t care. As my other memories fade all that remains is the pure joy of hanging bird houses with my father under the spring sun. When the tree begins to wither I will not be sad, for it has lived a long and meaningful life.