WIDOW OF WILLOW WAY




She was a damsel whom men would kill and be killed for.
"A virtuous woman" some old gang said.
But when have the young ever learned to hearken to the old?
One who could add streams of melody to your life and decorate your house with graciousness.
At her youth, her street was famed to have begun with sunshine and ended so.
Surrounded by dying willow trees from which the name Grandma Willow was born, the Old Lady of Willow have been rumoured to have traded life of neonates for hers.
When a woman lost her newborn, they say Grandma Willow had taken it.
When a mother wants to curse her child, they say "May Grandma Willow grab you by her sharp fingers".
She was branded a witch and much spoken about in town.
Mothers would often draw their children's ear to steer off the Willows.
And at night when the winds howl, they say she wails.
When the clouds belch thunder-cracks, they say her stomach cries for flesh and blood.
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The day my feet wandered to the Willows, for the first time ever, I never regretted.
She was like the remnant of a just quieted earthquake and a dreary sight to behold.
As I crushed leaves strewn on the floor towards her, Crows which were her eyes and companion flapped away.
She quivered and then I heard a frail voice ask "Who goes there?"
Unafraid, I sauntered towards her, contemplating her shrunk self, sat down opposite her so I could read her features properly.
Eyes coated in primitive, yellow and slimy substance stared blankly across me.
Too weak, they struggled to blink with futility.
Her eyes, were too feeble, plausibly from the flames of firewood burned for donkey years just to see the table decorated with dishes for a family she called hers.
Anyone in my position ought to have been afraid.
No you don't understand.
Let me describe how hideous she appeared.
Her hair flowed as a maiden's would only they were as white and winter.
Cotton dress, black with spot and almost threadbare that I doubted they were going to survive another storm.
Her wrinkled and weather worn skin was a table of content tracing back to her past.
Her back was hunched probably from weaning too many children or bending down to chores well past her age.
Crooked fingers defeated by rheumatism rested on her laps.
As I stared on, I realized she was erstwhile known as someone's daughter or wife or mother.
Where is her family?
She reeked of abandonment and neglect.
As Grandma Willow sat in the rubble of her memories and her blown off roof which was an added dread to her wasting sight, I introduced myself and went ahead to let her know I was not scared of her.
Oh boy! Did I urinate on myself for stupidly admitting that?
As she laughed gaily, I was most frightened as there were no teeth left in her mouth just an endless darkness caged in a hollow.
She replied "Even if I wanted to eat you, I have no strength to digest you".
This seemed like a relief and just when I had started to get comfy, she slowly raised her hands, pointing to a stack of debris.
I stood up to retrieve a box, unlocked it to find photographs swaddled in them.
"Keep them safe for me", she said.
At her primitive age, her thoughts still glowed and her words still flowed easily.
Grandma Willow had seven children as I could see from the photographs; beautiful boys and girls who had left their mother to the fate of nature and wastage.
"Where are they?", I asked.
She smiled and said "Scattered all over the city, hopefully doing well".
As she spoke, I saw the shallowness in her soul and life hammering her down in bits and yet not a soul to weep for her.
I understood there and then why she had refused to die- she didn't want to be forgotten.
All her good deeds deserved to be remembered.
I decided to help the world remember Grandma Willow and many others like her, abandoned in nursing homes, huts and villages.
They are still a part of this world.
We have deserted the breasts which gave us milk and the hands that toiled for our survival.
We do forget, that one day we shall be as old as they are.
And we would love to be catered and carer for.
Give them what you wish yourselves.
Go home to your ailing mothers and fathers.
Go give your dead a befitting burial.
Let their pictures be framed and safe.
Let grandchildren and great-grandchil
dren never forget what they were like or their footprints in the sands of time.
# TheBleedingInk
# ThinkandThank
© Whyte Queen