The Old Oak

She had found her brother. Under that oak tree they had always climbed on hot summer days. He had told her always, “I wish I could fly. Like a bird. You know?”
She never knew what her brother had meant. But she always promised she did.
And, oh, how Mike would laugh at her. “No, Mary, you don’t.”
She remembered the day Mike asked her to pick flowers with him. Climbed off the gnarled branch of that old oak to the fields below, held out his hand to support her down. “I love daisies,” he told her.
“I love dand…dand…”
“Dandelions,” he supplied.
“Yes.”
“Mary, those are weeds. No one ever likes weeds.”
“Well, I do,” she defended.
“Good. Someone needs to like weeds.” Silence. “Mary, do you like me?”
“Yep,” she said, her little hands already grabbing the next flower.
“Good. And it’s good about those dandelions, too. Someone needs to like the weeds. You know?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “No, you don’t.”
“But, Mary?” he continued.
She hummed in reply.
“Mary, I really am glad you like the weeds. Really glad. Someone does need to like them. Just make sure you never stop liking them. Okay?”
She hummed in reply.
And he laughed again.
She found Mike. His neck snapped like the stems of the flowers she had picked with him that summer day. His face stretched towards the sun and his arms limp at his sides. His feet hovered inches above the tallest blade of fresh, green grass, above the ground as his face concentrated on the sky.
“I wish I could fly,” he had told her always.