Under The Willow Tree

The chilly wind gently ruffles my hair.

   It’s hard to know how long I’ve been sitting here, under the willow tree, looking across the still lake. Perhaps minutes. Possibly hours. Watching the water reflect the trees that twist upwards.

   It’s strange seeing a large park deserted. 

   And so very quiet. 

   Only those who know about the secret fence can come in on a day like today. I learned to scale it as a child. 

   It was so easy back then. 

   I would look straight up at the top of the fence — my lofty goal — so much higher than me.

   My family would laugh as I clambered up. Falling down on the other side, with a splat, before jumping up to my feet. With a smile. Brushing off the mud stuck to my trousers. And we would all laugh some more, until we felt dizzy. Stumbling through the woodland, to the lake. Where we would settle for the day.

   That was then.

   Now — it’s quieter than ever. No one else knows the way inside. 

   So it’s only me.     

   And one other: an elderly man, with pink cheeks, and deep lines on his face. I can hear the crunch of the frozen leaves beneath his feet as he draws nearer.

   My knees are against my chest. 

   My back rests against the willow tree’s rough bark.

   The old man stands over me. I gaze up at him.

   ‘Lovely day for a stroll,’ he says. 

   ‘How did you get in?’ I reply.

   ‘Oh, I’m always here.’

   ‘You never left?’ I ask.

   ‘I never left.’

   I’ve run out of small talk. Difficult to know when to speak. Or what to say. My own voice sounds strange to me at times. Like listening to a note from an instrument you don’t recognise. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, the old man. 

   I watch him as he watches the lake. His eyes are fixed on the motionless water. His face is calm but bright. An easy smile plays on his lips. 

   He looks down at me.

   ‘Your trousers aren’t covered in mud.’

   ‘Sorry?’ I respond. 

   ‘Your trousers. Not got any mud on them. You don’t fall like you used to.’

   ‘Falling hurts too much,’ I say instantly. ‘I grew out of it.’

   I look down at my bruised hands. Small cuts and scrapes cover my palms, knuckles and fingers. The wounds sting whenever the wind picks up. I look down at my hands often. 

   Looking up is so much harder than it used to be.  

   ‘Well,’ he says, his voice echoing all around me. ‘It’s the getting up that counts.’

   I force myself to gaze up at him — he’s no longer there.

   I look to my right — he’s seated next to me — on the soft, damp ground. Knees pulled up to his chest. The willow tree’s long and looping arms cover us completely. They hover above the lake, blocking out the grey and overcast day. 

   It’s just the two of us, all over again.

   The willow tree sways from side to side.

   ‘Why are you here?’ he asks me.

   ‘I had…I had nowhere else to go…’

   ‘You could’ve stayed at home. Where it’s warm and quiet. You haven’t been back here for a long time.’

   ‘I couldn’t stare at those empty walls any longer.’

   ‘Won’t always be that way,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t matter much what’s on the walls. Only what’s within them.’ He laughs. ‘You’ll see.’

   I pause. ‘When?’

   ‘When you’re ready. When you’re not. When it makes sense — when it doesn’t. A lot of things are out of your control. More so than you think.’

   ‘You don’t have any answers.’

   ‘No,’ he says. ‘But I know all your questions. And I know there are answers. Only you can find them. As I’m sure you will.’ 

   We sit in companionable silence, except for the gentle breeze that still wraps around us. 

   His hands cover mine — heat spreads from his sure grip. Warming my arms, legs, and torso, like a fire moving inside me. 

   ‘Everything changed,’ I say.

   ‘I know,’ he says.

   ‘It was so long ago,’ I continue, unable to stop talking, once I start, ‘and I don’t feel any better now than I did then.’

   ‘You may never feel how you did before,’ he replies. ‘Memories live on forever. Good and bad. You find the ones that count. And hold them tight. Feel them deeply — don’t be afraid. You don’t need to let go of everything.’

   ‘You know what I’m talking about?’ I ask. 

   ‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘I think about it every day.’

   ‘Even now?’ I ask.

   ‘Especially now,’ he says.

   ‘So, I don’t need to talk about it here?’

   ‘You don’t. Just be.’

   The wind picks up around us. A stronger breeze ruffles my hair. I look down at my hands — I’m staring at smooth skin — the pain has stopped.

   I don’t know when the crying started. The breeze carries my tears, as they fall from my eyes, scattering droplets in the earth. I want to ask more questions. Before I go home. 

   ‘Does everything work out? Can you answer that?’ I ask.

   The old man chuckles softly. ‘I can answer you; I won’t. Today is not the day. Maybe not tomorrow either. Someday, you’ll have the answers. They may not be what you expect.’

   I pause. ‘What will you do when I go back…?’ I ask.

   The old man turns his head slowly, to gaze at me — just like that, I’m gone.

   The old man is all that’s left. 

   With his back resting against the willow tree. Listening to the gentle breeze hum its tune.

   ‘...I’ll carry on. Like I always have.’

I touch my cheeks. Which are damp from my tears. I sit on my own for a little while longer. Listening to the gentle wind, the rustling leaves, and the chirping birds.

   I try to stand and I catch a glimpse of mud on my trousers.

   And I laugh. 

*

I open my eyes — I'm back in my living room. Lying on my sofa. Staring up at the low ceiling. Silence wraps around me; its grip is weaker than before.

I wipe my face dry.

Time to get up.