The Medium Through Which I Saw Her

I don't recall truly how I began. At some point, I just was. There became such thing as 'me' and 'I' in an explosion of awareness of myself and my beingness. But this grand awareness happened because I was noticed by her. She was quite small compared to me and she had no trouble moving. I, on the other hand, could only be put in motion when I'd politely ask the warm breeze to move me. And even then, my draping leaves would be the only thing moving and the greater part of me remained motionless.

I quickly learned that she was something called a human.

And she would refer to me as a beautiful weeping willow tree. So I guess that's what I am.

She had just moved into the little house right across from me. I'd find out later that I influenced her decision on moving there because she apparently fell in love with me.

She'd take pictures of herself while sitting on me and sometimes she would just take snapshots of me. I'd always wonder why she'd want a photo of something so still and boring like me. But she would persistently show her appreciation for my beingness. It felt nice to have her company as I was completely enamored by her.

When she wasn't taking photos or filming me, she'd be journaling while resting her back against me. At first, she had a red, lined notebook that she'd always write in. But when it began to fall apart, she decided to purchase a little black book that seemed more reliable and well-made. The book was a dotted journal that she'd use to express her thoughts at the time, in words and with quick, vivid sketches.

She'd write about her hometown often and how she missed going to the county fair with her friends and eating the stale, salty popcorn every summer evening.

She'd draw images of a small puppy named, Koeda, that she had as a small girl and next to her sketches she would put the letters "RIP".

I still haven't figured out what that means yet.

Sometimes, she would write about her father and the horse races they would attend when she was just a kid. She'd reminisce about the pizza that they would share because the slice was too big to eat on her own.

And she'd draw sketches of her father walking out of the kitchen backdoor of her childhood home and her, as a little girl, crying on the kitchen floor with her mother consoling her.

On some occasions, she'd write about how beautiful she thought nature was. She appreciated the soft texture of it and raved about how striking the scenery was here. She enjoyed the big, green hills, the noiseless lake, and the old, handsome trees. This is when she'd be most calm. I could hear her soft breathing as she'd sketch the geese that would be walking before her in a single form line.

I would always try and shade her from the intense heat of the sun. It felt good to support and care for her in any way I could.

Days like that would soothe her otherwise disturbed mind. She was unhappy and felt abandoned for most of the day. She struggled with finding meaning in her life and had no other desire but to write in her little journal. It was the only thing that felt worthwhile for her and the only thing that she clearly understood.

She was obsessed with trying to relive the past because it felt sweeter to her than her present life. She'd visit her hometown on weekends and go to the fair alone. A few days later she'd come back to me with tears in her eyes and write that going back home made her feel empty.

To hold on to a piece of her father, she would attend horse-races and bet on a horse every other week. One week she ended up winning $20,000 on a risky bet and stopped attending because of it. She wrote that the experience felt unfamiliar because her father always lost money, never won any.

She even went down to the animal shelter to adopt a puppy; one like the puppy she had as a child. A few hours later she came back empty-handed and wrote that she didn't feel connected to any of the puppies there. She thought it'd be unfair to adopt one and not be able to love it properly.

I could clearly feel the sadness she was harboring. It was consuming her and it seemed to me that a dark cloud was looming over her, preventing me from feeling as close to her as I normally would.

The day I saw her last, she was so distraught that she had left her journal right next to me before slowly trudging back to her house and shutting her front door softly.

Then on one quiet, still Thursday morning, I saw a bunch of flashing vehicles in front of her home.

And I had overheard the people in uniform talk about how she had tragically taken her own life.

Suddenly, the name "weeping willow" took on a whole new meaning for me. I kept hoping that somehow I'd see her smiling face emerging from her front door and walking over to me. I miss her words, I yearn for her sketches, and I long for her beingness. Now I'm plagued by memory just as badly as she was.

I knew that she considered me to be a living being but she didn't think of me as alive by her standards.

But the truth is that I loved her dearly; everything about her. And had I been blessed with the gift of impenetrable foresight, I would've tried my very best to keep her around.

I would've come alive for her.