Family Tree

The branches of my family tree are twisted and worn, winding themselves into ornate tangles of whispered lore and forgotten truths. Even as the meandering paths of oak boughs intersect in a vivid tapestry, I look at the tree and marvel at the elegance of its deceptive simplicity. Near its base, strands of America protrude proudly, presenting their plumage to purple mountain majesties in the distance. Despite their stubborn haughtiness, these branches are looked upon with scornful pity by those above them, and even in their obstinate arrogance, some find themselves shifting ever so gently to find the arboreal embrace of Canada, just slightly higher. Further up the sprawling trunk, twin children of the Gael engage in a constant skirmish, their tips nipping at each other good-naturedly. The emerald luster of Ireland stands in direct competition with the auburn sheen of Scotland, even as the little twigs at their edge, Frugality and Alcoholism do battle as they sway in the breeze. Above them a chill lurks in the air, one which coats the oaken digits in a veneer of frost. Here the austere might of Germany is clamped upon the resolute boughs of Denmark, steeled by the constance of their resistance. The former looks down upon the tree, swearing vengeance upon the strands who abandoned it to military failure and economic ignominy, while the latter vows to combat its occupant's despotism, a golden star clasped in its wooden grip. And above it all, all the branches snared in each others' desperate, amicable, angry, proud, gentle, violent and tender embraces, an eagle is perched. Depending on who you ask, the eagle isn't really there, is only a figment of wishful thinking and ancient gossip, but if you squint, you can make out its distinctive feathers as they are ruffled by the breeze. It neither shivers nor recoils from the wind, merely stands in its path as it watches over the wolf cub at the tree's base. Some say you can even see it smile.