The weeping willow quietly wept, she was the beautiful, lonely sentinel watching over the dead in the old church yard. She through her life had seen her charges arrive with their sombre entourages, watching them as they were lowered into the soft earth. She watched as the living filed away sombrely and as, through the years the mourners came a visiting their loved ones carrying flowers fresh and gay with which to adorn the graves. She watched and wept with them until in time the walls of the church crumbled and no one was left to mourn but she, the weeping willow alone keeping her vigil over the silent dead.
Why did she care so much in her shady corner of the world? Why did she feel it was her duty to weep after all others had stopped?
Perhaps it was that when they were laid to rest, they fed the earth with their souls and memories which in their turn fed her, coming up through her roots, breathing their life into her trunk and leaves, their memories built her, she felt the sorrows and joys of their lives most acutely in her sturdy weeping form.
Her silent churchyard over the years had fallen out of grace, no one visited at all now, creeping moss covered the graves, the grass grew wild and tall as brambles claimed the place for their own. So in this sleepy place she slumbered, occasionally rousing drowsily to remember those all too forgotten souls who once lived all those many years ago.
One day as she slept, she heard voices among the graves below, someone had finally come to pay their respects. She saw a man and a woman sat upon the grass;
“This really is a peaceful place, it’s just so beautiful, I feel as though I am truly alone with my thoughts. Why have we never seen this place before?”
The man shook his head smiling;
“I don’t know, shall we explore it a bit?
He helped her to her feet and the willow from her vantage, watched them tease each other laughing like sister and brother as they explored the churchyard. She watched as the woman lost her footing and fell forward knocking her arm against one of the moss covered graves bellow. To the willow these people embodied life itself with their easy natures.
“OW!” the woman complained, rubbing her arm. “That rock hurt!” The man laughed good naturedly;
“Of course it did, stone is hard and stone beats flesh any day, idiot.” She stuck her tongue out at him childishly. He stepped forward to inspect the offending rock as something had caught his eye. Scraping back the moss a name was revealed;
“Evey, look at this, the rock that hurt you has a name.” Evey looked up;
“Oh be serious.”
He pointed towards the offending rock
“I am. It says, in loving memory of Gideon Parkhurst. Trust you to hurt yourself on a grave.”
Instead of being perturbed by this information as other people would have been, the willow observed that the woman’s face became sad and pensive, as she crossed herself uttering a quiet prayer. The man seeing her expression, put a comforting arm about her shoulders;
“Are you ok? You look sad.”
She answered; “I am sad Tom, this place is forgotten no one remembers those who sleep beneath our feet, no one even knows that Gideon and whoever else is here, ever existed.” She smiled a little sadly. “This will happen to us too someday, no one will remember us.”
He led her away through the church ruins, he was taking her home, and the weeping willow wept to know that another creature cared for those sleeping souls, resting below her roots.
The next day Evey and Tom returned, armed with strange tools, she watched as they busied themselves about Gideon’s Grave. She saw as moss and grass were scraped and cut, until it resembled a neat grave again. The willow was overjoyed as they repeated the process with another and another. A week passed and the place was as beautiful as before tidy and reverential.
She watched as curious people returned to the long forgotten churchyard, to her charges.
Evey and Tom returned too, often sitting in her shadow pleased with what they surveyed. The weeping willow no longer was the lonely sentinel watching over the dead. She for the moment had them;
Evey and Tom.
Clara Lucea
Missed the last instalment of We Six? Find it here: https://theiristribune.co.uk/the-half-pint/
