My Brother Who Could Not Love Me
~for him~
On the hill that gently slopes away into my neighbor’s backyard stands a solitary weeping willow.
Because it stands on a slope, water slips silently away, aplenty as it is, not having time enough to seep down to its roots to provide nourishment. Yet it stands, bare-branches twisted, a little unrecognizable, lacking the lush sweep of its counterparts that line the banks of canals or are the centerpieces of well tended gardens.
It is a survivor, a derelict perhaps, that has no business being there. For I have to clear it of debris that piles up under it — its own dead, convoluted branches, some pitiful dry leaves. But I have a fondness for it. I believe nature takes care of its own. Craggy and grotesque, a symbol of what might have been, it is very much there, bending with the wind, yet holding its own, drawing what life it can from the unyeilding earth.
No one has thought it worthwhile to tend it, the costs in terms of labor and time might have been too high. And so human neglect has taken its toll. Being immovable as it is, it could do nothing but withstand the ravages of weather and time.
It reminds me of you.
I’ve decided to water it and tend it, touch it, gently pluck dead branches, comfort and love it. The willow cannot love back, but to see it sprout some tender new leaves will be reward enough.
Farida Haque
