|Photo courtesy Scott Vannater with permission|
Jacob stared at the scraggly, misshapen limbs with unabashed confusion. It looked as if the tree had been fashioned in wax and cooled into its current, unappealing form. Surely, Opa Hans was mistaken and it was some other tree they sought.
Hans chuckled at the boy. “Ja, I know it don’t look like much now, junge. But sitting right under that ugly thing was where Oma Frieda said she would be my wife. And that will, forever, make it a beautiful thing to these old eyes.”
He only hoped the boy would someday find such a place of beauty himself.
This story was written for the weekly Friday Fictioneers flash fiction photo prompt.