The Sound of The Weeping Willow

There was a private graveyard; owned by Mr. Hubert Washington. Mr. Washington's youngest child, Darren, passed away; at birth. A weeping willow tree was planted; in the private graveyard. The year was 1754. Many things were not known, medically as they are now. Darren had scurvey of the bone. Well, the key to him getting well was none other than Vitamin C. However, Mr. and Mrs. Wasington didn't know. So, without the required Vitamin C and the medication, Darren passed.

Mrs Washington, Eleanor, planted the weeping willow. It was so small and frail. It reminded her of Darren. With tender hands, Eleanor gave all she had for this willow to grow strong and tall. Plenty of rain, times of waterning, plus her hands folded in prayer, the willow tree grew and grew well.

There was a gang of robbers. They looted the houses and homes that were close to theirs. Mr. Wasington was away; for a brief trip. Being the only one at home, Mrs. Washington had no chance of escaping the things these robbers had planned and did.

When Mr. Wasington retruned, the town's people, many of his friends, had to tell him what happened to Eleanor. Grieved, with all of his heart, Mr. Washington had to plant or bury, Eleanor. The private graveyard had gained another body.

One day, when Mr. Washington was looking, at the private graveyard, he noiticed something that brought tears to his eyes. He saw, if for the first time, the weeping willow. Its limbs hung low. They covered the two headstones. He wept many times; of seeing this weeping willow. There was a happy memory that crossed his mind. The day they left the graveyard looking at the weeping willow tree there was a bright spot he remembered. It was Eleanor's prayer she aduibly prayed. Mr. Washington was a man of faith. The prayers, as I said were answered. The smile crossed his face as he remembered that day.

What was so different with this evening? The evening, Mr. Washington, was sitting on the porch. His rocking chair was a comfort. There were memories of the times both he and she sat looking at the private graveyard. Hours upon hours he sat quietly thinking of his precious love and their only son. It was then, midnight, that he heard a sound that sent chills down his spine. It was the weeping willow. It was making the sound of someone crying. The same crying, Eleanor did. His ears may have played tricks; upon him. He wasn't for sure.

He listened. Attentively listened, to the tree. It cried again. Then, Mr. Washington went over to the private graveyard. He had to really convince himself that he heard what he thought he did. The next breeze that passed the willow made it clear that it was crying and crying the same as Eleanor.

The town's people waited for Mr. Washington to come to town. It was his usual time of getting his supplies from the General Store. No sign of him. No one had gone to his home to see about him. Then, Charles Moyer, a graat friend of Mr. Washington, went out there and found Mr. Washington's body between the two graves. It was unknown how many days he had been there. The weeping willow is the only one who knows. However, we all know a tree can't speak or even cry or can it?