Weeping Willow

Noon was the laziest time of the day for anybody who lived in my neighbourhood. It was the time of the day when streets were empty, roads deserted and instead of children, lizards lay on the small rocks in the park, basking in the sun. But had anybody chanced to stroll by churchyard street that windy afternoon, they would have seen a greatly dejected figure shuffling along the lane, under the bougainvillea. Shoulders sagging, gait heavy and a small bunch of purple wildflowers clutched in one hand, they would have seen Tom Wylde walking to the cemetery.

It was a peaceful place, the cemetery. Long stalks of grass swept across the lush expanse, dotted in neat rows with headstones of granite and mable. The sun did not glare as it did in other areas, and the wind itself seemed to stand still - A cool draught sometimes chanced to ruffle the stalks of grass.

A tree here, a tree there, a grave in the shade. Another under the willow tree.

Tom Wylde looked across the field and began pacing.

First row, second row, third and fourth. Sixth from the left.

He stood there, looking down at the smooth, simple marble stone, the only mark his mother had left on the mortal world. Etched into the stone were the words :

Jessica Wylde   

May her Soul rest in peace.

He brushed off a few stray leaves and sat down. Placing the wildflowers on the headstone, he began.

"Afternoon, Mother," he said, "It's exactly the kind of day you would have liked. Weather's fine, too. Except my day's gone all wrong. " - he gave a shaky laugh - "I got fired, which means I'm unemployed. Unemployed - do you hear that, Mother? I've got no money for food - the landlord's been demanding rent and I've got no money to give him."

He sat quietly, his head between his knees.

"What did you use to say, Mother? 'This too shall pass.'  Well, Mother, it seems that this damn well won't. I shall have died of starvation in a few days." He began rocking back and forth, veering on the edge of hysteria. Tears ran freely down his cheeks. "Say something, Mother! Why won't you? Where are you when I need you? You left me when I was so young." - voice faltering - "Come back - I just don't know what to do." He dissolved into tears, and shook fiercely as his body was racked by sobs.

Anybody who might have chanced to pass by the churchyard that Tuesday afternoon would have seen a man, broken by grief and misery, shaking and drawing in ragged breaths amid heart-wrenching sobs.

Tom Wylde wept his heart out, and just when he thought that he could not produce any more tears, he felt a small hand on his shoulder. He looked up, startled.

It was a young girl - no more than twelve. Her shining golden hair was pulled back with a ribbon, and she wore a spotless pair of dungarees over a bright yellow shirt. Tom Wylde watched, entranced, as the girl smiled, dimples denting her rosy cheeks, and then proceeded to plop herself down on the grass next to him, as if it had been her spot all along.

"I'm Willow Hillman. I heard you crying," she began cheerfully, as if she had not just borne witness to a mental breakdown. "And some of the things you said. Although I shouldn't have been eavesdropping. Everybody tells me it's a bad thing to do. I'm sorry for that. Although I suppose it's a good thing I heard, though, probably, otherwise I wouldn't have come here to cheer you up. Anyway, don't worry. It'll all get better. That's what my mother says - Here," She thrust a large, fluffy dandelion into Tom Wylde's hands. He looked down at it, slightly dazed, wondering why this little girl had suddenly decided to talk to him, of all people. Hadn't he scared her off with his breakdown? All the same, what was a twelve-year-old doing in a cemetery?