The Willow

Faded fingers caress the willow’s hardened hand, moist from the weeper’s gentle tears. Eye to eye, the elders gaze, one’s face of bark, the other’s of flesh, both lined with the carvings of age. A breeze dances in, playing with the woman’s gray wisps of hair, though only for a moment. As the wind moves on to tease the tree’s lush locks of green, it whistles and sings with the rustle of leaves, before making its exit, having finished its dance. The disruption gone, all falls into place, leaving the moment in stillness and silence. From the wooden elder to the horizon is barren but for the brown earth beneath and the gray sky above. The willow and the woman stay interlocked, both understanding and accepting the loneliness encompassing them.



The woman squints her eyes, her weathered skin crinkling into infinite folds from the gesture, and moves her eyes of gray over to the horizon, only to find it blocked by the thickness of fog. The wet mist cloaks both life forms, a suffocating blanket. The woman no longer minds, for what once felt frightening and heavy now comforts her, the blanket protective rather than stifling. The cool humidity cleanses her nostrils, and she lets the wetness enter her mouth, the fog traveling down her throat and into her body, before exiting with her deep exhalation. Her fingers, wrapped around the willow’s outreaching finger, loosen as she looks around. Her vision is obscured, but no longer does the unknown cause her anxiety.



She looks back to the willow, her oldest friend. Its life force still flows, mingling with her weaker own, but the connection lessens as her grip does. Through the silence, she hears the whispers of the leaves, the familiar voice of her elder. She has remained in the spot for what feels to her like an eternity, though she knows it is not. The willow is the only one who can speak of forever; to her it is still just a word. Time, she knows, is but restraint to the ignorant mind, and she is ignorant still. From the start of her cycle, though, she has known naught for the willow, and all touches but its have been unknown. The fog has been there as well, masking the only other choice she knows. Just as the tree is bound to the ground, she is bound to the tree.



Her grip is light now, wrapped around the tip of the willow’s finger. She tests her joints to find them tight and tense, from both age and immobility. Little reason had before arisen for her to move from her rooted position. Now, however, she feels the weakness of their mutual spirit, the lack of need the willow now has for her. Its survival and hers are no longer codependent. She takes a step back, the untouched earth stirring at the new intrusion. Two footprints mark where she once stood, deep and engraved into the earth, but even now, it is beginning to lessen, the surrounding dirt trickling into the imprint. The wooden elder rustles once more at the accidental brush of an apathetic breeze, nearly breaking her grip. The willow shows no qualms about how close it came to loosing the old woman’s connection, and the shake rather encourages her into relaxing her grip further. If she leaves now, she knows, she will not return. The thought no longer unnerves her. With one last gaze into the carved face of her ancient nurturer, she allows the willow’s hand to retract from hers, and her now free hand falls to her side. The tree is still, its face unchanging, and the woman can only watch for a moment more before turning and making her escape into the fog.