Willow is a tree of childhood. Mine, for sure. It grew by the pond on the way from my grandmother's house to the grocery store in a village in Belarus. Huge, mighty, with mesmerizing branches that fell straight down to the water's surface, swaying magically in the breeze. It was also attractive because it was easy to climb, which is what my sisters and I did. Such a great, wise and kind grandmother who stays in your heart when you are grown up.
Last summer, my husband and I traveled to his childhood places. We stopped in the village where he spent much of his summers with his grandmother. And there were also three great willows by the creek, which he had also climbed and which had also left imprints in his memory. It seems as if everyone has a Willow from their childhood.
There's an expression: “the trees used to be taller and the grass greener”. In many ways this is true. Returning to the places of our childhood, we find out that the road that seemed endless is only 5 minutes long, the wide river - a small stream, and the huge house of the grandmother - just a small hut. But somehow, in some incredible way, the willow remains just as huge, wise, kind, and a little bit magical.
