Whisperings of the Willow

She climbed the willow tree whenever her mood turned dark. On those days her emotions reflected none of the brightness of the summer sun. A melancholy eclipse blocked her spirit. Colors were muted, and time passed in shadow.

To reach the tree she exited the house through a basement door. It opened onto a concrete patio shaded by a balcony above. She walked past a wooden porch swing and a gas grill to step into a yard thick with grass. The dark green blades felt damp and cool against her bare feet as she wandered toward a gate that led to the lake behind her home.

When the girl was quite young she fed the ducks here. They would swarm near the bank while she and her sister tore crusts off stale Wonder Bread and tossed them into the water. Some of the birds would flap their feathers wildly. Others screeched and cried and fought for the largest pieces. The girls delighted in the ruckus.

On this lake lived a goose who laid a single egg each spring. She sat patiently on a nest built from shoreline grasses and lined with feather down. She waited for her gosling to make its way into the world, protecting the egg fiercely from anyone who came near enough to cause harm. But no matter how long she sat, her egg wouldn’t hatch. The goose had no mate. She spent her life alone.

Back then the lake would freeze rock solid in the winter. Neighborhood children descended upon the ice with newly purchased skates laced tightly up their ankles. Some kids would wobble and skid. Others would glide with little effort. Hours would pass until fingers and toes went numb. But waiting at home was a roaring fire and cups of hot chocolate — with tiny marshmallows.

The girl recalled these memories as she walked along the side of the lake to find the willow tree where she once took refuge. It had a massive trunk, gray and deeply furrowed. Expansive roots anchored it to damp ground, tentacles invading the earth far from the base of the tree. She could climb it quickly. With one foot on the trunk, she’d push herself upward while grasping a low branch. Her fingers curled tightly around rough, sinewy bark. That texture helped her maintain a grip and move nimbly toward the crown of the tree.

On an upper set of branches someone had built a rudimentary treehouse. Mismatched boards were balanced and nailed on a spot that reached out over the water. From here the girl could lie back and listen to the sounds of waves tapping the bank. She could watch the clouds overhead as they moved and morphed and took on familiar shapes. She could daydream and wonder and discover things only found in silence. She could observe the world from behind the willow’s low-hanging leaves, each tendril concealing her presence.

The girl frequently mimicked the willow tree when she had to interact with others. She’d tilt her head so the strands of her hair would fall across her face, blocking judgmental eyes and harsh glances. Most days, she would have preferred to stay invisible, hidden behind the cool, leafy expanse of the willow. Long after the girl grew to adulthood she would return to visit the tree. Her family home would sell. The lake no longer froze each winter. The willow began showing signs of age.

One day she arrived to find the tree was gone. The only evidence of its existence was uneven ground — from the intricate root system that had held it tightly to the land. When she sat on the bank where the tree once stood, the girl thought of the quiet comfort and solid protection the willow had provided. She was both thankful and sad.