On the steep bank of the rushing river, gazing sadly down at the whispering waters, stoops the ancient willow tree. For centuries she has stood here, her dangling branches privy to the secrets of so many who have sought shelter beneath the vast arches of her boughs. The willow has grown wise; silently she contemplates all she has witnessed as she stands in solitude on the land that is her home.
I am old now. There is no denying it. I gaze into the profound depths of the looking glass each morning, and I see the web of wrinkles that cloaks my body, the gleaming silver hair that was once mahogany, and the sky blue eyes that have lost the fiery shimmer they once contained. My memory has faded with them. All that remains of my childhood are brief glimpses. Some of the memories are pleasant, like a spoonful of sweet ice cream on a sultry August day. Others are like salt on an open wound. Sharpest of these is the image of two children—a slender girl with mahogany hair and a tall boy with eyes of coffee mixed with cream. I see them sitting side by side against the smooth trunk of the willow, heads bent together as he reads to her from a worn leather volume of poetry, his stuttering, fumbling voice growing stronger in the assurance that she believes in him, her eyes smiling, knowing he loves her.
Sometimes when I sleep I dream of it. The tree is still the same, strong and unchanging, except for the swaying of its green curtain in the gentle breeze. The boy’s eyes have not lost their glow, nor his limbs their youth. When I awaken, the image fades, but the girl remains. She is far older, with silver in her flowing hair and a scattering of creases drawn across her smiling face. It was this that forced me to realize that I must go home.
Now I am once more at the edge of the wood where the river rushes along its rocky course and the wind makes waves in the tall grass. Again I sit in the shade of the weeping willow, that patch of rich earth that is concealed by the sheer veil of emerald tears, and I remember. So many summers I spent here, swimming in the shining silver stream, dancing in the forest glade with the grace of a nymph and the blissful ignorance of a child, for I was a child…
…and then I see him. He is darting across the meadow toward the river bank, his lithe body covered in a sheen of sweat. He is no longer a boy but not yet a man, at that golden age that lasts but a moment before it is gone forever. He is innocent but not naïve, wise but not corrupted, glowing with the light of joyous youth. He grows closer; I hold my breath. Those eyes…those coffee-colored eyes… and then I remember. It was all so long ago, but here he is before me, just as in that terrible moment when my world crashed around me in the roar of the rushing torrent of human emotion…
I begin to run toward him, the years slipping away, the wrinkles fading from my soft skin, my limbs growing stronger, my long mahogany tresses blowing in the breeze. He stops by the edge of the river, turning to me, calling out to me in a stuttering voice to watch him. I cry out in alarm as he dives, knowing that the water is too shallow, just as it was then. If only it can end differently…if only I can save him…
On the steep bank of the rushing river, gazing sadly down at the whispering waters, stoops the ancient willow tree. She is weeping for all she has witnessed, for the loss of youth and friendship, for the little girl who once was the epitome of grief. I look upon that trailing curtain of tears one final time before my silver hair submerges into the watery abyss forever. There is comfort in knowing that I shall not be alone.