Have you ever wondered what it's like to sit in one place your whole life, only able to watch the world unfold around you? Wanting friends, craving your own story, yearning to be the main character, yet feeling like just a figure in the background? It’s a familiar feeling—like a tree, rooted yet unfulfilled. But you may not know it like I do. I’m a Salix Babylonica, a Weeping Willow. I live near a park with a pond in it. I have imagined many stories with me as the main character, though I know it will never be able to be real. Sometimes I imagine myself as a witch with short, green hair, pride, a face full of extraordinary makeup, and over the top fashion. Sometimes I imagine myself as a long haired goth girl with rainbow hair. Sometimes I imagine myself as a simple, brown, short haired college student who has a future as a poet. But never will I ever be able to become any of those. I’ve seen many of other people’s stories in my time, though. One I am particularly interested in, and I quite enjoy making theories of how their story will end. She is an eleven year old girl with long, brown hair, and green eyes. Her name is Britney. Though, I have discovered she does not quite like that name and prefers to be called Ekko. Although she is very different than everyone else I have observed. Allow me to explain how we met.

Question

It was a Saturday morning, sunny with barely any clouds in the sky. A red car parked in the parking lot of the park. A brown haired woman with glasses and a suit got out, then an eleven year old girl with sweatpants and a t-shirt and long flowing hair and flip flops on stumbled out. She shook herself off, then looked up at the woman. “Finally! The seats in the car feel SO WEIRD! Like, it makes me shiver. EEK, my feet are SO COLD!” She then growled loudly and pushed her face out of her hair. “Britney, I told you to put on socks and tennis shoes. That’s why your feet are cold,” the woman said. “MOOOOM, I said call me EKKO! Ugh, stupid hair! Can I PLEEEEEAAAASE get a haircut, mom? PLEASEEE?” The woman scoffed and locked the car. “I told you, I named you Britney and that’s what I’m calling you! And I have already told you, no, you can not have a haircut, now come on,” the woman said, adjusting her glasses.

Ekko/Britney tugged at her hair angrily. “Can I go play now,” she asked eagerly. “Yes, yes, go on.” The woman opened her laptop and sat at the park bench, opening documents on it. Ekko went running towards the playground, but then saw me, and stopped. “Woah,” she whispered. She then ran up to me and tugged at my leaves. “So dangly!” She whispered loudly. She then stopped. She ducked under my leaves and went up to my trunk. “Its like an umbrella,” she said with awe. She sat down, looking at me. “What’s your name,” she asked me. This was new! Nobody had ever spoken directly towards me before! I was very happy, but I realized I had no way of telling her, nor did I have any clue of my name. “Oh. Do you have a way of telling me? Maybe your mute. Darn. Hmm.” She then sat there, thinking. I also was thinking. Was there a way I could talk to her? I got it! I could drop my leaves into words! But… there’s no way of telling where they would land. But, still, I had decided to drop one near her. It landed on her head. “Oh! My hair is a hazel brown! I get it! Your name must be Hazel,” she exclaimed. That hadn’t been why I did that. It was to let her know I was listening. But, Hazel would be a great name!

For the next hour, she talked to me about her life. “My feet are cold, but I hate the feeling of socks! They squish my toes and itch and I hate them! And I hate my hair being SO LONG. I want it short! It always gets in the way, and TOUCHES ME. I HATE IT. And I like being called Ekko, but nobody does! They call me my real name, Britney. But I hate that name! It doesn’t fit me. And I wish I could shapeshift so I could TURN INTO A JELLYBEAN. And THEN I wish I could fly, so I could just be a FLOATING JELLYBEAN and be touching NOTHING. UGHHH, EVERYTHING IS TOUCHING ME AND ITS AWFUL I WISH NOTHING WAS TOUCHING ME!” She curled up into a ball and screamed into her hair. She seemed to be having sensory issues. A few minutes later she uncurled herself and sat down. “Do you want to know why I wanna be a jellybean? So my arms and legs wouldn’t get in the way. I get comfy but then I never know where to put my legs and arms, so being a jellybean would be nice. Do you ever wish you could be something else?”

She was holding back tears, I realized. “I used to love jellybeans. My dad loves jellybeans. I remember my dad used to take me to a pool and we would swim together and play little water games. I wish I could breathe underwater. I used to want to live underwater. But my dad isn’t very nice anymore. He tries to be, but he gets mad and yells and gets scary. He’s always on the phone or at work. And my mommy and him aren’t together anymore. Whenever I’m with my dad, I just want my mom and my tummy hurts and I worry more than usual. And I pick at my skin but then it hurts and I wish I didn’t but then I do it again without meaning to. And he doesn’t let me express myself. Whenever I feel everything touching me and overwhelming me he gets mad at me for screaming or crying or curling up in a ball. Sometimes I can’t talk because of the overwhelming touching feeling. I have 5 friends, but my dad always tells me I need to interact with other kids my age even though I do. He tells me my mom is an awful person. But my mommy is good! My dad isn’t. My dad is scary. I have to go to his home every week. But I don’t want to! I just want to be with my mommy. But he tells me I can if I want, but he lies. He tells my mom wont let me, even though my mom completely agrees with it! He tells me that people don’t lie to somebody if they love them, but he lies to me… And I cant sleep good when I’m with him.” She was crying.

I couldn’t do much. But I lowered my branches to touch her, and they grazed her back and then she hugged my trunk. “Nobody understands me or my problems. They don’t even care. I get told to suck it up. It’s not fair. I feel like everyone hates me.” And then, her mother called for her. “Britney! It’s time to go,” she shouted. Ekko wiped her tears off and ran...

Answer 1

...to her mother, but not before glancing back at me with wide, glistening eyes. I could sense her confusion and sadness hanging in the air, a feeling I knew all too well. It was as if she was a gust of wind who momentarily brushed past, leaving behind a trail of longing and despair.

I watched as she climbed into the red car, her mother adjusting her glasses and looking stern while she scrolled through documents on her laptop. The woman seemed immersed in her own world, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her daughter. The car door closed with a definitive thud, but the echoes of Ekko's words, her dreams, and her fears lingered like autumn leaves clinging stubbornly to the branches.

As the car pulled away, I felt a heavy weight on my trunk—not just from the loss of her presence, but from the knowledge that I could do nothing to help her. The world continued to unfold around me, the laughter of children playing in the park, the chatter of parents, and the gentle ripples on the surface of the pond, all washed over me like the tides of a restless sea.

But what can a tree do? I thought. My entire existence is anchored in this soil, my voice lost among the rustling leaves. Yet, a spark ignited within me. Maybe I didn't have a voice, but I had stories to tell—stories that might one day reach Ekko. I began to weave the tales of other visitors to the park: the brave girl who stood up to a bully, the boy who found a way to accept his differences, the couple who danced together among the cherry blossoms, completely in tune with each other and the world.

Each story was a thread, and together they formed a tapestry of resilience and connection. Perhaps, if I could drop my leaves in such a way that they fell into Ekko's world, she would see them, feel the depth of their emotions, and know she wasn’t alone.

That night, as the moon hung bright and full in the indigo sky, I shook my branches gently, allowing clusters of leaves to flutter down to the ground. I imagined them transforming into words, carrying whispers of hope stitched into the fabric of each tale.

Over the following days, I watched as Ekko returned to the park. She often played in the playground but would occasionally wander back to me, her face marked with fatigue or kindness, laughter or anguish. She would find my shade, sit against my trunk, and sometimes speak or simply breathe, letting her thoughts float among the leaves.

"Sometimes I think about the future," she confessed quietly one day. "What if I don’t get to be who I want to be? What if I’m always just Britney, always stuck in this place?"

I wanted to reach out, to tell her of the countless paths, the infinite stories waiting to unfold just like the gentle stretch of my branches. I wished I could show her that life wasn't a single narrative filled with despair, but rather a collection of narratives where she could emerge as any character she desired.

"Sometimes I imagine myself as a bird," she said, squeezing her eyes shut, dreaming aloud. "Just flying far away. No one can tell me who to be or how to feel. I wish I could just leave."

As she spoke those words, a gentle breeze brushed through my leaves, rustling them softly, and I let a few more fall, drifting down to the earth, hoping they would captivate her heart, as she had captivated mine. I wanted her to know that she had the power to write her own story, to be the jellybean or the witch or even the poet she dreamed of.

One sunny day, bold and bright like the colors of a painting, Ekko sat beside me, and I noticed a twinkle in her eye. "Today I feel different. Lighter," she whispered, her fingers tracing the bark of my trunk. "Maybe I won’t always be Britney, maybe I can be Ekko. Maybe I can write my own story after all."

With that, I rustled my leaves as if cheering her on, feeling the vibrations of joy pulsing through my very being. I hoped my presence anchored her, gave her strength, like the roots that held me steady even when storm clouds threatened to tear me apart.

And so, I continued to be there for her, a silent witness, a guardian of her dreams, as she dared to reshape her identity—and perhaps, along the way, find out who she was meant to be. In time, she learned to listen—to the world, to herself, and to me, the Weeping Willow who would always be there, dropping stories for her to find, reminding her that she was always capable of becoming something extraordinary.