The Difference of a Day (or) The Death of the Willow

I woke up Wednesday morning to find a drizzle of rain tapping on my window.  How lovely, I thought, that I could get to work to the sound of rain today.  But when I looked outside, I realized it would be no ordinary rainy day, as I saw odd patches of white and grey forming on the neighbor’s roofs resembling snow in the form in which they gathered, but remained transparent like ice.

It wasn’t until I looked out into the backyard did I understand- the specific conditions of this day made it so the clouds were warm enough to create rainfall, but the temperature on the ground was cold enough so that all the rain would freeze upon landing.  It left a magnificent display of dewdrop jewels glistening over everything: every blade of grass was decorated, all the fences and gates were adorned with icicles, the furthest reaching conifer leaves, glazed in halos of glass.  But most beautiful of all was the willow tree.  It looked as if someone had dipped it in liquid crystal.  Every curve, ridge, line was exaggerated in its splendor from this highlight made of ice.  What’s more, the weight of the ice made the branches hang low, creating an air of heavy mystery.  When you stepped towards the thicket of frozen branches, you could hear its density- it changed the way sound travelled.  Everything grew quieter: the pattering of rain dulled, the world faded away.  Closer now, you could swear you heard the willow’s breath.  It was the willow’s world that you were now in.

I was so pleased that I had finally learned to love this tree after close to fifteen years of considering it a nuisance; and it seemed almost as if no sooner upon falling for it, I was rewarded with this wondrous display.  It hadn’t occur to me to stop once to consider the nature of what was going on meteorologically.  I just loved it all for the beauty.  And so having taken in my fill of wonder, I set about my day’s business.  I was writing at my desk when I heard the first loud crack.  It sounded as if a neighbor was attempting to remove the ice from his driveway with one determined scrape.  I suspected his endeavor was quickly cut short with the realization that his method would be ineffective, as I only heard one crack.  It wasn’t until much later, upon rising from the desk, did I understand the source of that sound: the ice that had been accumulating on the branches of the willow tree, had weighed it down with such pressure, that one of the main limbs buckled, and snapped.  All the other branches seemed weighed down as well, but were holding on fine; and though slightly upset by the incident, I thought at least it would make an interesting addition to the coming spring: we would have a patch of sky filling in the space memorializing the branch that the willow lost during its performance in its crystalline robe.

But the rain had yet to cease, and the performance was far from over.  To my horror, across the span of the day, I watched as the willow’s major branches, one by one, succumbed to the weight of its crystalline robe.  With every crack of a limb, the thought was reinforced: there would be no spring to be had.  Crack.  No summer.  Crack.  No fall.  Crack.  No winter.  No more delicate veils of chartreuse, no more billowing waves of blue green. no more flowing strands of yellow, no more subtle sways of bare branches.  The damage was irreparable.  There was no way the willow could grow back into any semblance of good form, let alone back to a resemblance of what it once was.  All I could see was the look of a tree that’s been singed to a crisp by a wildfire.

I recall thinking on that day, that there was a lesson to be had of all this.  Something along the lines of a reminder of the fleeting nature of all things: here today, gone the next. 

But looking back on it, I cant help but feel the overwhelming senselessness of it all.  We search for meaning in devastation so that we can comfort ourselves with the thought that the horrors didn’t happen in vain.  And yet, I wonder- perhaps they did.

I’ve lost an old acquaintance, a new friend, at the height of my admiration for them.  Perhaps I never loved the willow more than when it was draped in that crystalline robe weighing it down to its death, wrapt in light, wrapt in mystery.

“What secrets do you hold?” I asked it when I approached it.

I’ll never know.  Perhaps I ought never to know.  Keep me enchanted.  Keep me rapt in your wonder.  Farewell, my dear friend.

willow before the glaze