Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
Two willows grew on a knoll by the sea; each salty gust sent their boughs in sweeping arcs. Their shallow roots formed a tether, preventing earth from eroding into the foamy waves below. In the safety of their shade, the trees held people too. Each August this ridge came alive with campers, laughter, and Shakespeare.
On this bluff we discovered we were secretly water benders. We spent hours practicing our supernatural skills, karate chopping water out of the air. The first time I made you laugh, I was spinning uncontrollably and yelling your name until we were both hysterical. One afternoon I carried you along the water, your arms wrapped tight around me, your hair tickling my face. Your curls were so feathery, so soft. I asked to braid your hair, and you let me; once, just once.
Sometimes we just sat in silence, and watched the sky.
Beneath the curtain of a weeping willow, there is an empty cavity, a space waiting to be filled. This is a place of poetry doodles, words left to stew. Questions ensconced in scribbly faces, running ink. Paper thin from erasing.
But your drawings followed you everywhere, they covered your hands, your converse, the worn fiber of your jeans. You used to carry around this yellow magic marker. That’s what I remember most, that damn Crayola twirling in your hand. Hidden underneath all that ink, you were trying to erase.
In some places the trees grew ragged, their bark carved and scarred, covered in lines that longed to disappear. Enclosed by willow arms, I cradled broken flowers, wilted petals. I imagined Ophelia, wading into an icy sea, singing softly to herself, “There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.”
Nestled among the willow roots, you lie cloaked in summer stillness, at peace with gravity. Your voice floated up, words dancing around you, seeping into salty air. You breathed in the lives of Viola, Gloucestor, and Horatio, and exhaled fragmented pieces of yourself. As August passed, you were freed of some weight. Your wrists began to heal, your lines grew thin. You drank Coca Cola and ate raspberries, sweet red juice on your chin.
You napped in patches of sun, face turned toward the light.
That final summer, the city ravaged our island. The long reeds along the duck pond were torn away, Rhododendrons hacked into neat squares, foot paths widened, tall grasses mowed, and the willow trees devoured. Splintered. Left in chunks. Paper-thin moths dizzy from sun burrowed into browning grass. Our world had been trimmed, tamed, and taken away.
When your mom passed away, you were gone too. Roots wrenched up, suddenly airborne. You told me you were heading to Alaska. I shivered picturing your frail body, hurting, and alone, in such cold.
That first year I wrote often, I sent you Shakespeare. I hoped you remembered the trees, the place you came alive.
The first year you wrote back
The second year I waited, the third year I watched, the fourth year I remembered, the fifth year I dreamed.
Nothing but silence, the ghost of willows. Willows for weeping.
And this summer as I sat beneath the branches of a sugar maple with a gaggle of exuberant campers, I looked up and saw your face.
Five years and I remember every line.