willow tree

It began with a photograph. Not of the main character of this story, nor of her mother, as she left early on, bringing her baby boy with her. They had left long ago, just like her pride, just like her heart. No, the photograph was of a window. A window with sweeping violet curtains that were held back with intricate silver clasps. If you looked closely enough at these fastenings, you could see the faint outline of a bird. It’s shining eye large and innocent and soft against the rough exterior, the blank canvas. A bird flying into nothingness, seeming to move and stopping halfway. This is Lucy’s window, her curtains held back to reveal indigo sky laced with the remains of magenta and mandarin sunset. And in this indigo sky, in the nearly invisible foreground, just outside of her window, is the black and treacherous outline of a willow tree.
But in the beginning, this tree was not treacherous, or black. In the beginning, the willow tree was beautiful.