THE WEEPING WILLOW

VIOLETA TORRES '24

I.

I came upon it past Old Stone Creek, where the Earth curved upward, and the stone path abruptly stopped. It stood tranquil and burned with warmth, a home for those who were willing to find it. The sun peaked out just above its canopy, shrouding the greenery with aurelian light and blinding my eyes for the second time that morning. I stepped forward across the grass, careful to avoid newly budding flowers. Spring had just begun, and the whole town smelled of dew and prosperity. However, the forest kept its lush, verdant scent just as its annual flourishing time began. As I approached the willow, I lightly grazed my fingertips along the wood, memorizing the ridges and their maze-like structure. Stones were placed on the ground, like steps to the base of its trunk, where its roots haphazardly expressed their presence and knotted themselves with the earth.

These steps of the willow tree became my sanctuary. Countless weeks I spent beneath its shadows, listening for the whispered secrets from the mouths of the morning birds. When the sun quietly rose, I would sprint down the path, past the creek and through the trees. That prairie breathed life into my soul and raised me to understand the complexities of living. The willow tree towered over me, like a mountain I was desperate to climb, but there was no frigid ambiance, just warmth, and approval. This is where my laughter was born, where I grew up. This is where I learned how to sew myself together after I was torn apart, where I was healed. The willow left a mark on me that could not be erased nor covered.

II.

Yet, I left. I tell myself it was not my choice. I say that I would never, but I know I did, and I know I could have changed my mind. There were things chasing me faster than the willow could reel me in. I was scared of disapproval, and so I went, hoping that the world was similar to my home. Sometimes I wish that I had never left, staying was easier than starting over. However, it seems that starting over was universal and constant.

I would never run away fast enough. The earth broke beneath my feet each time I did.

I came back one winter morning after life threw me away. When the true struggles in life devoured my sanity and tanked my self-worth. I lived a romanticized life as a curious teenager, a life I neither regret nor pity. Although, I do not wish to return, for that life had its struggles that are not worthy of reliving. However, my sanctuary, my home, which I left in pursuit of such a disparaging reality I was unaware would hit me, could perhaps remedy my soul and salvage my morality. Perhaps I knew as I passed the oily remnants of Old Stone Creek and the abundance of stumps where my childhood forest once stood, that life had been just as harsh to my dear old friend.

To my surprise, as I stumbled past a lining of trees that fortunately survived the massacre, my eyes fell upon my former oasis. The exhale of my breath fogged my view, a sigh of relief that came painfully too soon, all too ill-considered and wretched. I could see the willow, in its wintery form. Ice densely hugged its drooping branches, a painful reflective surface for the sun. The snow hardly broke the tree’s circle, but the fine powder was here and there. From afar, it was home, but alas, my judgment was fooled. It may have escaped the axes, but the poison, far more stealthy and noxious, ravaged its life. Decay burned my nostrils, as I peered upon the ruins. Rotten wood lay menacingly across the prairie ground, and discolored sap oozed like venom from spores in fractured branches. The cryptic clanking of bone-like shards replaced the chirping birds at dawn. The sparrow and thrush are sprawled in their graves amongst the moldered bark; their song lies forgotten in their throats forevermore.

As I feared, life was not merciful. It came like a storm and hollowed us out, for the willow is like me, a casualty of others’ successes. My balance staggered. Pain erupted through my knees as they crashed on the stone. My head hung in despair, I practically begged to be dreaming. But life could not be a dream, it was too harsh to be a fantasy, too evil for my mind to conjure, too corrupted by the hands of men. The hanging branches clashed together in a chorus of laughter; my ears bled. And beneath that old willow tree, I wept.