I Built this Treehouse in the Ground

Chp. 6: The Roots

To his ambient aura, he seemed all but fine.
His lap covered his head, slowly risen in slow paced seconds.
His eyes were like softened grapes and his pupils were mere specks.
However-- he felt just fine.

"Just a headache," they said.
And they said what they had to.

To his developing anticipation, senses found their ways.
First was his touch with the texture of the bark against the smooth, creaseless fingertips that unfolded from his mud encrusted hands. The bark which was so rough yet welcoming. The wood that splintered and burned allowed the boy to grasp with nothing less than what he could give.

First was his touch--then came the sound.

But at the moment, all that was existent was the rough skin against his creaseless roots.