In my dreams he is dead—when I wake he’s been dead twenty years—but in my dreams, we’re
planting a maple sapling in our backyard. I’m maybe five or six. A thin, wiry thing. I sometimes
look up the address on Google Earth and study the tree’s canopy covering the tiny yard. A still,
quiet tire swing hangs from a thick, sturdy branch. After he’d dropped the root ball into the
ground, he watered the soil and let me to pat it down, saying:
W.A. Hawkins is a writer from South Louisiana. You can find his work in this place and HAD.
image: Jade Hawk is a meat popsicle.