Kropla Deszczu

Julia was teaching the willow about crying.

“What is it like?” the tree asked. This was often how their lessons started.

She closed her eyes, too dry to remember. “It looks like rain,” she said. “Feels like a wildfire.”

Her mother had taught her that people who could store freshwater became rich and left for better things. She’d minded her mother’s soured lip, and found sweetness in a giant that knew no sadness and asked about her dreams.

When the first rain of the summer came, Julia awoke to soggy leaves.

“It feels cold,” said the willow.

“But why are you sad?”

The tree dropped icy rivulets onto Julia’s hair, eyes, hands. “I don’t think I am,” it said. “What is crying when it isn’t sad?”

“It's trying to move past drowning, and feeling stuck in place.”

“And what is that?”

“Fear.” The girl stared at the emptying clouds while the willow peered into her eyes. After a time, leaves brushed Julia’s cheek.

“What was it last night?”

Julia breathed quietly. “Daddy splashed in puddles with me, and mommy wrapped us in blankets,” she said.

***

The next day, Julia found her willow tree silent, still, and sunny. A man was drilling into the tree’s trunk. Even with the breeze, the willow did not stir.

Julia screamed and ran, weeping into the desiccated bark. She could feel small drops on her hair, eyes, hands. Leftovers from the storm, and hot. She hadn’t wanted to teach it like this.