Of what could have been
Beneath the willow tree, someone cries.
Her skin, weathered and streaked with tears.
„Tell me, why do you cry?“, I ask the woman.
Sitting down next to the hunched figure, I listen to the fine branches of the willow bristling in the wind.
„I listen to the trees and the earth telling their stories. How could you not weep?
The old woman turns to me. Her eyes colorless, yet drowning in emotions.
I don’t find my answer quickly, torn between leaving and wondering if she’s mad.
„I don’t hear it.“
The old woman’s wrinkled lips lift into a wistful smile.
„Listen closely and you will be told what could have been.“
I hear birds singing a mournful melody over the wind and the distant surge of waves lapping against the shore of Pine Lake. I try to grasp meaning in those sounds, but I find none.
„Do you want me to tell you the stories nature reads?“, the old woman asks.
I nodd and she clears her throat as I lean back against the dry bark of the willow tree.
„Nature tells of what could have been. She doesn’t speak in words. Feelings are the true language of her story.
She shows the pain in the eyes of all her dying creations. She shows how the tides of dark oceans turn and the brutality in each drowning death. She shows the beauty of the rainforest’s emerald core and how it is burned to ruins. She shows a mother’s love and how nobody seems to care.
It is beautiful, really. To see everything that could have been.“
She takes my hand in her palm with a firm grip, her skin parchment thin. As I look into her eyes I begin to understand.
So we sit there, weeping under the willow. Not just for what was lost, but for everything that could have been.
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