Bare Branches

The stark beauty of the oak’s bare limbs, silhouetted against the metallic blue December sky, caught Darcy’s attention. From a distance, each branch, a variant shade of gray, appeared interwoven with another, creating an intricate pattern that suggested strength.

But Darcy knew different. A single, thin branch, stripped of it leaves and laid against the bare limb of a little girl, was strong enough, on its own, to leave a painful, red welt. And a memory that scarred for a lifetime.