The Weeping Widow

“The Weeping Widow” by Murray Knock

She stared intensely at the willow tree. Its leaves had turned a myriad of shades of yellow, red, and orange as the season spectacularly transformed from summer into autumn. One leaf fell gracefully from a higher branch and floated like a parachute on the breeze as it was gently carried this way and that. Without any coaxing it landed on her shoulder. She held the delicate leaf in her hands. Its texture was smooth as she carefully ran her fingers over it, admiring its beauty and youth. Its veins formed ridges - responsible for transporting water and other essential nutrients. She admired the intricate net like patterns, the darker midrib vein that ran up the middle, and its sturdy structure. Holding it made Margaret feel young again, vibrant and alive with a purpose. Something in the recesses of her mind was triggered as she first recalled an event, then a face. Circling the broad trunk of the willow, she happened upon an inscription. With one of her index fingers she followed the groove that had been carved many years ago. Two sets of initials were visible, one inscription reading “WC”, and a second reading “MB’ - both encircled in a heart. A single tear trickled down her cheek.”W for Bill (or William) and M for Margaret” she whispered knowingly. “Oh Bill, I miss you so much” as she cradled the young leaf in the shade of the old tree. The very tree she had spent so many happy times around as a girl.

If the truth be told, it was Mr Henry Robinson’s third attempt to find someone home at number twenty-nine Magnolia Drive that day. In particular a certain older lady that he had quickly come to admire. Not only for her companionship, but also for her love of nature - a passion he himself held close to his heart. As he sidled up the path, his heartbeat quickened, and he squeezed tightly the colourful bunch of lilies picked earlier that morning from his very own garden. He was confident this was to be his moment at last. “Carpe diem” he quietly said to himself.

Laura heard the familiar tap on the front door. As she predicted, it was him, again. “Hi Mr Robinson” she said with a grin. “Is your grand-mother home Laura?”. “I’ll just go and check for you,” she replied excitedly. Laura knew Mr Robinson liked her grandmother. She was pleased for them both. His regular visits had given her a new zest for life. Something that she hadn’t seen since the passing of her beloved grandfather.

Margaret, Laura’s grandmother, had moved in with her only daughter, Anne, a few months ago. She’d lost William over a year ago now, and had been diagnosed with dementia shortly afterwards. Laura called out but there was no reply. “Mum, have you seen Grandma? She’s not in her room”. “She’s probably out in the backyard pulling weeds!” came Anne’s reply. Laura hurried out the back door scanning the yard. There was no sign of her in the main garden. She must be in the old shed, thought Laura. “Grandma! Are you there?” she yelled. Flinging the wooden door open with a mixture of dread and expectancy, Laura peered inside. There was no one inside. “Mum! Mum! I can’t find grandma”.

The policeman finished making notes in his pocket book and was about to leave. “Well, if that’s all Mrs Broadhurst, we will continue our search and let you know as soon as your Mother has been found”. “Is there anyone else who may be able to shed some light on this disappearance?”.”Well, she had been spending the odd afternoon with Mr Robinson next door, but everyone thinks he’s just a lonely soul - in need of some company”, replied Anne. “They seem to have a common interest in all things green. He may be able to help you”.

“Can you think of anywhere she may have gone, sir. Anywhere at all no matter how improbable it may seem? Some place of importance or perhaps special Mr Robinson?”. “Hmmm, well now let me see Officer” said the old man. “She could get a little confused at times and used to say some strange things you know...as people with her condition do”. “Well, if you do, would you please contact me at the number on this card”, said Officer Jones. He was just about to leave when the old man blurted out “The tree! The tree!”. “She used to talk about a tree in the park. The old willow tree. She used to meet her husband there when they first dated...it was their hangout”.

“Oh Mum, we’ve been worried sick,” exclaimed Anne as the Officer held open the front door of number twenty nine Magnolia Drive. Laura ran to her grandmother and hugged her as if they would never see one another ever again. “Where have you been?”. “I had a date!” Margaret replied emphatically. “With your Father...but he didn’t show. Maybe he’ll be there tomorrow. Yes, he’ll come tomorrow. We always meet there”, she smiled walking slowly to her bedroom. As she entered, she felt claustrophobic. The few remaining personal items that she still had with her seemed sparse. She recalled a byegone era. A house filled with fun, laughter, and an accumulation of many years worth of treasures, trinkets and tokens. Memories of a man whom she had loved deeply and lived with for nearly fifty years. On the wall above her tiny single bed was a painting. The only one she had been able to rescue from the house move which had been hastily done in her opinion. It was the sole connection to another life, a less complicated life. There was something about it. She admired the brushwork, the colours, and textures. What she most admired was the time taken for someone to create this. The initials “MB” had faded so much over the years that they were barely recognisable. She stared intensely at the willow tree.