No More Reprieves

I have been chosen to follow a strange path after my death. My sister had buried my body in the backyard and planted a willow on my grave. I became one with the tree, and gave my sister a sense of comfort until she killed herself six months after I had been placed in the ground.
         
         My home was for sale. Many came to see my house.
         First it was a couple with two toddlers. The black-haired woman’s nose was constantly pinched, and she was always criticizing something. Her small husband kept trying to contradict her, but he never won their dominance struggle.
         Then a college student came. His red nose matched the color of his dyed hair, and he was always rubbing his watery blue eyes. I believe that he was allergic to some of the plants around me.
         The third and final viewer of my house was a middle-aged woman. Her dark blond hair brushed the top of her shoulders. She had light hazel eyes with a nose that was not only hooked, but bent slightly to the left as if it had been broken and healed incorrectly.
         When she spotted my grave, unlike the others, she didn’t say anything. She decided to buy my house.
         
         The first week after she had settled, she came to me. She picked one of my branches, and started carving on it. I watched, hypnotized, while the dark bark was ripped from the limb by a metal tool of destruction and gently dropped to the ground. I watched her carve strange symbols into the newly exposed flesh while biting her tongue in concentration.
         After she finished, she sighed contentedly and stood up. She started walking to the back door without a word.
         I decided that she had forgotten to thank me. Humans are not known for their memory. I decided that she could thank me later when she remembered.

         After fall had come and I had turned the ground amber, she came to me. She told me all of her worries, and asked for help. Then she tied a string to one of my branches, and knotted it. Without thanking me, she whirled around in a cloud of dark gold and started walking to the door.
         Again I told myself that she had forgotten. I tried to convince myself, but I knew deep in my roots that I was lying.
         I granted her wish and helped her, and then I waited for my thanks to come.
         I waited for six weeks, yet she never came. I was growing impatient and upset. It is just not done! It is expected that you thank the tree for giving so generously!

         That night I asked my friend the wind to blow. He blew harder than I had ever seen, even when I had been human. He blew against my trunk angrily. What little leaves clung to my limbs were torn off and taken away. The knot of string on my branch was sharply torn off and pulled into the whirlwind. The skies darkened, and his fury grew.
         One of my large branches started to creak ominously. The wind howled, blew, and pushed. The branch fought back, trying to stay connected to my trunk. The creaking grew louder, louder. It came more and more often until CRACK!
         My now-dead limb fell. The wind pushed my lower limbs until the dead one was caught in them. As soon as I caught it, I thanked the wind. He slowly moved away, and a light sprinkle of rain poured down to nourish my fellow plants and me.

         The next morning, the woman came to clean the debris left from the night before. I called her to me. She came closer to me until she was seated under my mighty arms. The wind started to gently blow. My branches moved slightly. As I towered over her, I watched my dead limb plummet to earth . . .

         My home is for sale again. The third death in my house caused rumors of spirits to spread through the town. Some believe that I am still in my house. Others do not. They are both wrong, as I reside in my backyard in the form of a willow tree.