Weeping Willow

9/12/05

A weeping willow is lying on the ground, its branches drifting lazily into the crisp, cool water. The sun shines bright in the sky above—watching a group of young girls playing at the water’s edge. They are playing tag, screaming and shouting until it seems as if their lungs would burst. They threaten to push each other in, clothes and all. One girl tip-toes to the edge, looking into the dark, murky water. She looks deeper and deeper. She sees something in the water that she can’t quite work out. She feels a pulling—a tugging at her soul. She is about to walk into the water to discover what she saw—but one of her friends drags her away to continue playing. But she can’t get the black water out of her head.

That night, she slithers out of her window—her heart aching for that darkness. Her heart is aching for that coldness she felt before. She gathers her dress at the edge, searching for what she had seen. There! There it was—nestled deep in the mud and leaves. She reaches for it, needing to know what it is. She goes and goes—until she is submerged and breathing in water, still searching for what she saw.

The next morning, her friends find her face down in the water, the weeping willow’s branches wrapped around her. And it is said that to this day, the weeping willow still claims young girls’ lives—by showing them a world they never knew.