Willow

A Story by Madesco.

A contest entry on animal/inanimate object characterization.

Willow

* * *

Predestined from the moment its roots churned the earth, Willow was forever meant to weep. His leaves lacked the sinewy strength of the Birch that teetered next to him, and instead drooped as if carrying the weight of the entire world on their shoulders.

When wind flickered past in a tumbling haze, Willow would often feel a lilt in his branches. In a quiet ruffle, the sound would grace the forest in a melody that could only be described as melancholic. Willow himself would sag further with each note, like stubborn dew sliding down an upturned leaf after fresh rainfall.

If any of the trees rooted to the earth had jealous tendencies, or a resentful twig about them, Willow was never the object of their envy. Continuously, wind took its toll and spurred Willow’s leaves to wilt further, painting a creased picture of yellowed edges on what had the potential to be a wonderful image.

And so, like a mossy waterfall the colour of earth and stone, Willow’s branches fell around him, swallowing him in a cave. Unlike Aspen, who refused to grow where other trees sprout, Willow could not afford to be claustrophobic. His leaves surrounded him, cornering him into a submission of his watery fate.

Watery was perhaps the next best word to describe Willow’s person, next to weepy, for like tears, they cascaded down in layers of flimsy green. It was almost as if one were staring at a waterfall made from fiber rather than whirling current, the way his leaves feathered down in such flourish.

Yet, Willow did not see himself that way. A waterfall descended only from pores as he continued to weep and bend within himself. Sorrowful tunes of strife and distress echoed even above the sparse rain that scattered and nourished the floor, giving Willow life.

Days passed with Willow growing forever shaggier, and to accompany the new look, growing more inane in his displeasure with his appearance. The wind howled, scratching his bark and he howled along side it, specks of cremated hope thrashing against him. As the rain stopped, thirsty trees joined the prospering cry, twining together and creating the illusion of forest whispers.

Abruptly, however, Willow had to stop. A chirping next to him interfered with his dramatic song. He twisted his trunk to catch a glimpse of the small robin, an orange belly striking against his green leaves.

Gnarly branches twisted into a questioning expression as Willow inquired why such a beautiful bird was perched in such a hollow and wilting tree.

Robin’s beak curled at the edges in an indulgent smile. “Why, your leaves are so long and smooth – they hide my nest from predators. And my chicks are fond of your weeping branches for they are elegant and shine crisply in the morning light.”

If weeping willows could blush, Willow would certainly have done so then. However, such actions were reserved for cherry trees alone. Instead, he curved his leaves around Robin’s nest in a most gleeful way, and already his leaves began to shimmer with delight.

And though Willow still often wept, from that moment on, it was never in sadness.