So with a little editing help from the mom-in-law, I finally finished! I hand it in tomorrow. Polite suggestions only, please. I'm trying to preserve what sanity I have left :)

So take five.

 
Rubber-Soled Mary Jane’s
Typically, the rooster would have crowed by now, but he must have slept in. Through my leafy foliage, I watched as the morning sun peeked over the most northern snowcap. My leaves began to take on colour again as the light penetrated their surface. They became alert and stiff to the touch. The night’s dew slid down their veins and dripped to the ground, landing in a puddle created between two of my grainy roots: a perfect place for birds and squirrels to bathe. As the breeze swept in, it brought the scent of late night boozing and early morning chores up from the valley. The wind wasn’t fast enough to blow the stench by, and the manure brought up a bad aftertaste.
The shady, chilly patch underneath my branches created shadows along the gravel path that would have scared anyone half to death. Too bad there were no visitors at this hour. As the warmth finally reached my bark, I felt the pain of the latest carvings. Sure, you could go about stabbing the name of your latest infatuation into my skin, but at least respect a little of a tree’s dignity. Now, ‘R plus K equals heart’ will stay with me forever. That’s a tattoo my mom would be proud of.
            Rooted down for the last one hundred twenty-three years, I’ve watched four hundred ninety-two seasons come and go, along with thousands of people, each with their own tales to tell. I watched as these masses came daily, each one pacing, talking, sharing, and snoozing under my leafy shade. But soon enough, I’ve forgotten their faces and their stories, all becoming the same after a while. Maybe today will be different. It is the first day of summer, after all.
            They’re always commenting on the view. They come up here, the wrinkled and the refreshed, the lean and the stout, the wide-eyed and the completely dull, and say, “I could get used it up here”. I’ll admit that it’s not a bad perspective. A quiet, grassy meadow amongst a colossal, panoramic mountain range is very ‘Sound of Music’ if you ask me. It’s a suitable setting for young romance or reflecting on lost love, special family moments or distraught loneliness. It does the trick, and here I am smack dab in the middle of it all.
I waited for my first guest.
            A young boy arrived soon after my shade passed over the eastern trail, along with a young pup no larger than my newest branch. Ah, the smell of adolescence and wet dog! After frolicking in the birdbath, the pup marked his territory on the only bare spot of my aging trunk, and the boy simply ignored this acidic deed, keeping his attention on the smooth stone collection he was angling into the back pocket of his torn overalls. Through my dangling stems, I saw him reach for something, a toy maybe, in his front pouch, and immediately, my alarm bell began to ring. A slingshot! Those blasted things! This is not the ideal way to start off a summer. I shut my eyes and hoped that my stiff branches would cover up my ‘sensitive areas’ as best they could, but there was no telling of the damage that weapon could do.
            Just as I glimpsed through the branches, he raised his homemade weapon; his elbow locked into place beside his ear, grazing his fine, blonde hair. He slid a smooth, gray pebble inside the leather swatch, pinching it between his thumb and index finger. He was aimed right at the tip of my branch, squinting, and as my eyes wandered to his target, I spotted a robin clutched to woody offshoot.
            The boy fired the stone.
            In horror, I gaped as the robin fell to the ground with a thud. Plunk!
            “Yeah! Alright!” the boy shouted, thrusting his fist into the air. He rushed under my branches and scooped up the fallen bird with a swift motion. He pinched both wings and stretched the bird out, and then he pretended to make it fly. He threw the corpse right at my trunk and it hit the scratchy bark and fell to the ground.
 I looked away and contemplated the incident and found myself wondering if perhaps the bird had dependents, like kids, or something. How would they survive? I had never felt this emotion before. Normally, I would have laughed off the episode like a practical joke, but this time, I couldn’t come back with some sort of witty response.
 Sap dripped for my lowest knot.
The sun hits its peak in the noon blue, and the boy collected a few more pieces of ammo. After smearing the sweat over his brow, buttoning his torn pocket, and leashing his smelly pup, he continued down the hill towards the valley. Convincing myself that he was done preying on innocent for the day, I reveled in the sun, feeling new, green buds emerge on my highest branches. Just another story I had to forget. I wondered if this summer would turn out to be like every other: forgetful, uninspired, and ignorant.
A gentle wind blew through the hills as the day’s temperature began its steady rise. I took pleasure in the whispering it created amongst the trees, as my fellow oaks passed messages through the currents. That’s how we communicate, you know. Today, we fell upon a discussion regarding the latest rebel who decided to join his trunk with a poplar, and it was able to take my mind off of the pathetic morning happenings. But soon after the wind died down, my forlorn state returned.
As the heat continued to climb, I became more and more aware of the lifeless robin pinned amid my roots. Sympathy reappeared to my morbid thoughts, and I wished this wasn’t the last way he would be seen. Everyone deserved better than that. He deserved recognition, a monument even, of how his last moments were cheerful and filled with delight. A monument of him sitting on my limb, taking in the fresh summer fragrances, whistling to his heart’s content, but instead he laid there still, departed, disregarded. Poor bird.
I fell into my afternoon slumber, sad.
I was awakened by the most angelic, tranquil sound of the sweetest giggle that escaped from my next visitor’s mouth. A giggle so soft and spontaneous that it was able to lift my spirits even a smidge. My eyes grazed the grassy horizon until I spotted a pink jumper and little white tights prancing up and down through the waving grass. My guest.
Her dark brown pigtails and guiltless dimples radiated joviality, and her laugh continued to break down my dark emotion and reveal a hopeful beam visible through my bright green foliage. I could tell her mind was filled with only buoyant thoughts of nature’s beauty, dress-up dolls, and sidewalk chalk. The smear of a leftover chocolate snack found on her cheek confirmed her nonchalant demeanor as she skipped underneath my shade. She was memorable already.
This one seemed different; she seemed to respect the natural world, unlike the rest of them. But still, as she crouched low and plucked the robin’s corpse from the makeshift gravesite, I held my breath. The bird had been through enough. It would be horrible if he’s family every found out that he was used as a target and a toy. But gracefully, the child swept her palm against the chick’s back in such a way it might have even brought him back to life. Gentle, rhythmic, and filled with compassion. She was about to do what I couldn’t: give him the burial he deserved.
As she clutched the robin, her eyes scanned the base of my trunk for the most appropriate and respectful spot to make a gravesite. I saw as her steady eyes rested on a narrow groove between two of my hardiest roots. Perfect. Gently, she lifted her toes and laid her foot into the groove, and with her rubber-soled Mary Jane’s, she began to dig. And dig. And dig. Soon enough, as the sun began its descent below the clouds, below the snowcap, the grave was ready. The girl stooped to her ankles and tucked the bird between the safety of my diminutive fortress, where he would lay in peace away from the harm of any homemade slingshot.
As she scooped the dirt back over the peaceful robin, I couldn’t help but knowing that this moment was the most memorable of all. She, along with her rubber soles, would cling to my memory for the next one hundred and twenty-three years.