Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

He set down the breakfast haul on the table, a spread of bagels, croissants, coffee, and donuts.
“Have whatever you fancy,” he said, moving in closer to return the mop to its spot beside me. With a gentle nudge, he guided me into a chair at the
dining table. From the spread, he picked out a small bag of colorful mini pastries that seemed a bit out of place. Casually, he remarked, “These won’t
really fill you up, just a little treat. Kids seem to love them.”
Those little pastries, ten for a couple of bucks, were a classic parent trick to keep kids happy.
When I was a kid, I always wanted them, but my mom thought they weren't worth it. We'd pass by the bakery every day on our way to school and
work, yet she never got them for me. By the time I could buy them myself, I felt like I'd outgrown them.
But now, that childhood craving was right in front of me. I picked up a pink one and took a bite. It was just as I’d imagined—soft and mildly sweet.
I looked up at him, my eyes crinkling into a smile. “Thanks.”
He paused for a moment and then gave a little smirk. I picked up the cutest purple pastry and offered it to him. “It’s delicious, you should try.”
He chuckled, “I’m not a kid.”
“Who says adults can’t enjoy colorful pastries?” I shot back. “I’m not a kid anymore either.”
He replied, “Wise beyond your years,” and then, to my surprise, took a playful bite right from my hand, swallowing it whole. It wasn't even enough to
fill a tooth gap.
After breakfast, I found myself at a loose end. Jonah had changed his clothes and was already deep into his sketches in the studio.
“Why don’t you watch some TV?” he suggested, but I shook my head, not interested.
“How about homework?” he offered, but I waved it off, not feeling it.
“Well, you could mop the floor,” he teased.
“Now that, I can do,” I replied with a grin.
He joked that I must be coming down with something to agree so easily. “If you’re restless, why not join me at work?”
He handed me a sketchpad and a pencil, inviting me to sit beside him and draw. Once he picked up his pencil, he seemed to transform—focused and
absorbed. Even to someone like me, it was clear he had serious talent.

Me, on the other hand? I might as well have been born without an artistic bone. After what felt like ages, all I had to show were three stick figures, one
missing an arm and a leg.
He didn’t say a word, just looked at my attempts and laughed until tears welled up. My resolve to avoid drawing was definitely reinforced.
By the next day, I was perfectly content to sit next to him and tackle my homework.
Our routines—mine, Jonah’s mother’s, and Jonah’s—intertwined without really overlapping. I was an early bird, Aunt Marie was early to bed and late
to rise, while Jonah was a night owl but still up early.
Jonah’s mother, who I called Aunt Marie now, struggled with serious insomnia, taking sleeping pills each night. She usually woke up around nine,
went to the market for groceries, and cooked at home. In her downtime, she dived into books, from “One Hundred Years of Solitude” to “Les
Misérables,” and occasionally indulged in spy thrillers, though she rotated through just a handful. Her empathy ran deep, often getting so absorbed
she'd shed silent tears.
When she was too tired to read, she'd sit by the door, gazing at the old oak tree outside. By nine in the evening, she’d head back to her room to rest.
Jonah, a tattoo artist with a flexible schedule, had his studio set up on the right half of the first floor. He’d be up at six sharp, handling all the
household chores before heading out for a workout. By seven-thirty, he'd be back with breakfast. His mornings were spent sketching or organizing his
materials.