Cascading Fronds

I go by many names. But the one I love most is Frond. Little Susie McCormer gave me that name when she planted me here. She’s long gone now… But I remember her. I remember them all. Every human, animal, or whatnot that has come and gone from this windswept field I call home. And I will never forget. For my roots run deep and my branches wide. I hold the memories of this little glade like stories in a book.

I stand here now, as I have been standing for years. I look out over the white-tipped waves of the ocean crashing against the rocky shore far below, watching the dolphins dive and leap. Watching the seagulls, hawks, and other birds swoop and spiral. Watching the grass bend as the breeze blows over the hilltops.

My name is Frond. And I am what humans call a weeping willow tree. My leaves are turning golden-yellow, almost orange, as fall nears. The breeze off the ocean is chilly, but I am unbothered.

I have lived through these frigid months many times before.

Ahh, those years. When I was young…

I recall when Susie McCormer brought me here. She was six then. I was barely a sapling.

Her father dug up the earth with his shovel, placed me gently in the ground, and covered up my roots. Susie was so young then, too…

I will never forget how the wind whipped her blond hair in her face, and she laughed and ran in the glade as her father worked.

Oh, her father. He had a bright smile. His smile lingers with me.

As the years passed, Susie would come out and talk to me. I wish

I could have spoken to her.

I wish I could have comforted her as her father grew ill…

That I could have been more than a tree…

But that time is long past…

And Susie comes no more…

I miss her…

But then Benjamin came. He was a bright lad. He’d come and read books while sitting in my branches. He’d read aloud, and I would listen and watch. Soon, he began to read in his head, and I could no longer hear him… So, I began to read over his shoulder. I remembered how he would read to me, and I would follow along in the book. That is how I learned to read…

But then Benjamin stopped coming too… and I was alone for a long, long time…

Not completely alone. I had the squirrels who lived in my branches, the fox who lived in my roots, and the bird who would perch on my branches and sing a soft tune…

But I still felt alone. The animals would not speak to me the way Benjamin and Susie had. The animals would not tell me what they did at home or how they learned a new trick. The animals would not show me cartwheels and books. No… I miss Susie and Benjamin.

But I know they will never come back. Humans have such short, wondrous lives.

They can run in the sun… dance in the glade… speak to others… smile… They are more alive than a tree that sits and watches.

They can do so much more than me.

At least I can sigh. When the wind blows just right, my drooping branches make a soft sighing sound that slowly drifts across the glade.

I suppose that is why I am called a “weeping willow tree” and not just a “willow tree.”

Though I miss Susie and Benjamin… I also met many others.

After years of being alone, Cammello came along.

She was sad, like me. She was alone.

She’d tell me stories about her life. School. Her friends. Her family.

She told me how everyone at school would make fun of her. How she felt alone when she left home. She’d tell me how I seemed to be the only one who would listen to her.

And I did listen. I listened to everything she’d say.

I had nothing better to do, and she… she reminded me of myself.

Only… human.

It was Cammello who taught me about “years,” “months,” and

“days.” She had such a beautiful imagination. Full of life and wonder. She’d write books and read them to me. I loved her books.

It was with Cammello that I learned how old I was. I was almost 200 years old when I met her. It had been almost 200 years since Susie had planted me…

That was such a long time ago…

Cammelo had been eleven then.

She was such a creative girl…

It echoes with me still…

She left me for college when I was 210 years old, and she was eighteen. She said she was going to learn how to write books. I was happy for her. But I was even happier when she came back.

She was the first to not forget me. She came back, placed her hand on my bark, and whispered to me… “Thank you,”

No one had ever thanked me before. And I felt like I should be the one thanking her. She had kept me company all those years…

She had taught me so much…

And she had come back.

She had sat by my roots and told me everything she had done. She had finished college and became an author. She had traveled the world. Had published many books. Many of the stories she had read to me. And so many more…

Then, she left.

She came back one last time. When she was old. She told me

stories of her youth as she looked out at the water.

She came back to say goodbye…

I will never forget her amber eyes and her smile… or the way she’d sit by my roots and read books. I will never forget her voice…

I will never forget any of them.

Susie, Benjamin, Cammello… they taught me so much.

There was Iris. Tara. Logan. Carlos. Hong-Li. Jabari. Ekaterina.

All of them. They mean so much to me.

Iris showed me the beauty of art.

Tara showed me the sweet heart of music.

Logan showed me the heartache of love.

Carlos showed me the joy of flight.

Hong-Li showed me the pain of loss.

Jabari taught me the knowledge of history.

And Ekaterina shared the magic of culture.

Their stories… their love… their passion… it opened the world to me. It helped me see what I did not have.

And, though it hurt not to have, I lived to hear their stories. I lived to watch them grow.

The way Iris would create each careful brushstroke. The way she carefully crafted each piece of art. It was magical. She painted a portrait of the water. A sketch of the house she lived in. And even a watercolor of me. I’d never been a model before… I hope the wind didn’t cause me to move too much…

Oh, and Tara’s voice… It was like a gentle breeze with flowers. I’d never heard something so amazing. Yes, I’ve heard the birds sing before… But nothing like Tara. She sang of the ocean. The trees. The sun. The stars. Anything and everything she could see. But she also sang about pain. Loss. Love. Hope. Joy. Everything she could feel. Things I could not feel. But when she sang… it was as if I could feel those things too…

Logan. I hope he found the love he was looking for. He spoke of a boy he liked. A boy named Gregory. He said Gregory was everything. But he was too afraid to ever speak to Gregory. So he never did. And Gregory loved someone else. That broke Logan’s heart. But he got back up from it. And I hope he found the love he aspired for.

Carlos loved to talk about planes. He would make paper planes and would test new ways to make them. He wanted to make the perfect paper airplane. One that would fly straight, true, and far as the eye could see. He came back, like Cammello, when he was old. He told me of all the places he flew to. And he looked up at the sky and dreamed of flying.

Hong-Li. I felt his pain. His loss. He grew up in China, but when his parents died, he was fostered into a family in England, where he met me. He would sit by my roots and cry. Telling me about his mother and his father, and his little sister. How he would play with his little sister and her kitty. How he would help his father with work around the house. How he would sit with his mother when she was ill, and he would care for her. I wish for him to find the joy he longed for.

Jabari was wild with knowledge. He loved to learn. Loved to explore. But, above all else, he loved history. He loved the past. How it glowed with life. The stories. His passion reminded me of my own history and all the people I’d met. I loved to listen to his stories of his life in Africa and his family. How he came to England for work to help his mother and younger siblings. How he wanted to help everyone.

He came back, just as Cammello and Carlos had. He told me he realized that no amount of money, fame, or knowledge could have accounted for the love he had for his family. He told me how his dream came true, and he was able to make his loved ones happy and was able to help many people. How helping people made him happy. I am happy for him, too.

Ekaterina loved culture. She loved to learn the beliefs of so many other people. She wanted to know the gods they worshipped, the way they ate, and the way they lived. She wanted to know what they valued, what pushed them forward, what they lived for. She wanted to know their religions, their love, their joy. Their pain, their loss, and their hopes and dreams. She saw each person as an embodiment of their own culture. She believed that, though everyone had beliefs, each person was uniquely and beautifully different in their own way. Each culture was just the bigger picture of a far more diverse and wild world. She once used trees as a metaphor. And I believe what she said was true.

It had been a sunny summer day. Ekaterina had been sitting by my roots, looking out over the ocean. I had been enjoying the soft, warm air.

Ekaterina had looked up at my trailing branches and whispered, “Iva,” she had called me.

I believe she said that Iva is the Russian word for willow.

She sighed and ran her hand across my bark. “Do you know what makes up the whole?” She whispered.

I did not, so I listened.

“Think of it this way, if you can think at all,”

I could, and I did.

“Each part of a tree makes up the tree. Each tree is a whole. A culture, a household, a family, a country, anything. Any sort of whole.”

If I had a head, I would have tilted it to listen better. She had caught my attention.

“But, the whole tree could not be without its parts,” she said.

I knew this was true. I am a tree, after all.

“You see, a branch cannot be a part of the tree without the trunk. And the trunk cannot be without the roots, and the roots cannot be without the seed. And the seed could not have been without the leaves, and the leaves could not have been without the branches,” She explained.

I knew this to be true.

“So, a tree could not be without its parts. That is true for any whole. Nothing can be what it is without its separate parts. Take one part away, and the whole has vanished,” She sighed. “I wish I could find the whole that I am part of…”

I wish that, too, Ekaterina. May she find that place where she can be part of something.

Yes, I know all their stories. All the days I spent listening. I learned many things from those people. The ones that came and went. The ones that came back. The ones who did not. Their memory echoes with me. Always have, always will.

I recall the storms. The snow. The rain. I relive every day that ached me to the roots. Every day that warmed my leaves. Every breeze that chilled my branches. I reminisce about every story I heard. Every year that passed. Every changing season. Every day. Every second. I remember it all. And I will never forget.

I learned many things over the years.

I learned what love was.

I heard pure music, with raw emotion.

I felt the soft touch of life.

I watched the joy in a child's eyes.

I learned what it meant to truly be alive.

Because life is not all joy, laughter, and happiness. Life is not all pain, loss, and loneliness. Life is change.

Life is the shift in seasons. The fall of leaves. The cold breeze and the warm sun. Life never stays the same; it always moves on.

No one stays forever; they always leave in the end. They may come back, but eventually they stop coming back at all.

Life is a blooming flower that spreads color in the world, that gives honey for a hive, that makes a child smile, and eyes glow.

Life is the old woman who stares at the sea and relives her youth.

Life is the old man who looks at the sky and dreams of flying.

Life is the wonder that new days bring. Life is the pain that

haunts our joy. Life is the smile we wear when we remember the people we met. Life is the stories we share by the fire and the songs we sing to show our emotions.

Though I may be a tree, I have stood by this ocean, in this glade, for over 300 years. I have watched people come and go. I have felt their pain, heard their stories, and felt their joy. I have witnessed their change. Heard their voices and saw what they love.

I may have never moved, but every day, every story, it brought me with them. I felt like I was running in the fields with Susie. Like I was in the stories with Benjamin. Like I was traveling with Cammello. Like I was painting with Iris. Like I was singing with Tara. Like, I was crying for love with Logan. Like I was chasing family with Hong-Li. Like I was helping people with Jabari. Like I was searching for the whole I was a part of with Ekaterina.

Every tear, every smile, every ounce of pain, every bit of

happiness… they were my life. They are my life.

Memory. Stories. Lives. People.

They made me the tree I am.

Every storm. Every sunny day. Every lighting strike. Every gentle breeze… They shaped who I am. And I could not be without them.

I used to wish I could change the past. Used to wish I wasn’t a tree. That I could speak, comfort, and help the people I met.

And then I realized… I was made a tree for a reason. Not so that I could speak to these humans. Not so that I could comfort. But so that I could listen. So that I could learn. Grow.

I do not wish to change the past anymore. Not only because I know I can’t, but also because I do not want to. I was made this way for a reason, and that reason was so that I could listen. Listen to the wind. Their voices. The storms. So that I could listen and let them speak.

So that they can learn.

And as I stand here now, my drooping leaves turning golden-yellow, and the season changing from summer to fall… I stare out at the ocean. At the dolphins leaping from the water. At the seagulls, hawks, and other birds swooping and spiraling.

I do not wish that I were one of them.

Instead, I watch. And I wait.

I wait for the next story. For the next journey. For the next life. I wait for whoever comes to speak next.

And I will wait, looking out at this shimmering water, listening. Maybe, one day, you will come across me. The old, weeping willow tree, sitting in a windswept glade, looking out at the ocean.

And if you meet me, you may speak. And I will listen. I will stay. You can sit beneath my cascading fronds, watch the white-tipped waves crash against the rocky shore below. And I will listen.