Salix ×sepulcralis Simonkai

While she lived, I never knew her real name. She was simply my friend. Always there. Almost always had been. I barely remember the day that she arrived. I was small enough to still need help onto my swing set, and old enough to repeatedly chant the chorus of Mary Had a Little Lamb. If not for The Argument, that momentous day might not have even imprinted memory.

My father won the argument.  Against my mothers wishes, and amid my tears, I was removed from the swing and my swing set was relocated deeper into the backyard. We'd lost a battle of some importance. We had been displaced, my swing set and I.

Of course my tears stopped as soon as I was lifted  to practice swinging my legs again, but from the new vantage point, I watched my parents,  and this newcomer, warily.

For years I wasn't allowed near her. If I ventured too close the backdoor would open and I was admonished to play somewhere else, or told to come inside. Eventually I understood why. My friend was unlike others: fragile in some way. From a distance I watched her grow. In fact, we both did.. She waved at me shyly, I would smile back. She spoke in whispers. Became tall and lithe. She danced sometimes, with long strands of hair whipping. Beside her in rain, I would outstretch both arms and let rivulets course down my limbs. Year after year the bond grew stronger. From her, I learned to love every sunbeam, every drop of rain. I learned if you sit absolutely still, wild bunnies come very close indeed. I learned to appreciate the kind of strength that can be flexible, the kind of silence that isn't empty, and the patience that brings reward. She taught me also that giving freely without reservation or expectation brings a special beauty not easily found elsewhere.

When I began to read, and later to also write, I leaned on her. Often on summer nights I fell asleep star gazing beside her. One of my earliest attempts at poetry began with a line in her honor. "I loved a willow tree once, and neath her slender branches, I'd never known a rest so sweet."

She lived to see my son tickled by her branches, tiny fingers curiously stroking. Somewhere a photo captured him squatting beside her peeling an Easter egg. Then suddenly, in a late and fierce winter storm, she died. Working together, Shadrack and I did what was necessary.With rope around the saddle horn we carried her to the edge of the field. Her remains became a wildlife refuge. For years each spring I hoped to see some new sprig returning: but she was gone. Gone, but not forgotten.