Tears pour from its eyes, cutting lines through the dirt smudging its face. I feel elation at its pain and fear, but I bore of this one’s meekness. It has not tried to escape once; soon it would be time to find a new one. Grabbing one of its hands, I drag it through the muddy grass, fresh and glistening from the rain of last night. Seconds later I am at the river bed, the slow moving current always calms me and brings me the cool clarity that is required at this point of our journey. I close my eyes and suck in the sweet air, listening to the birds chirping and the gentle whispering of the hanging willow’s branches in the water. The emerald green leaves are like hundreds of greedy tongues, lapping at the river’s cool liquid. A smile spreads across my face and I take action.

I hoist it up, lashing its wrists to several branches so its feet are submerged in the river’s shallows. I feel the power as I seize its hair and make the quick cut I have perfected over the years. With a jerk and a shiver, its blood spurts from its throat and out onto my hands. I cup them and catch a handful of the warm, viscous liquid. In two quick strides I am out of the water and kneeling by the trunk of the sagging willow tree. The crimson fluid flows into the ground until only small rivulets remain on my patchily stained hands. The willow does not seem satisfied, it never does. Wiping my hands on the damp grass, I move back into the water, cut the limp thing lose, and pause for a moment to watch it drift down the river. Only when it becomes no more than a spec of floating flotsam do I begin the long trek back to my car. I have failed, yet again. Will I ever not?
The new green grass of spring rolls under my feet in luscious hills; a few animals dart across my path, but in all senses of the word I am alone. I reach the red 2002 Subaru Outback my father gave me when I turned 17. He had said “a car is a baby, treat it that way.” He had never been an interesting man. Sure he worked as an environmental lawyer, supposedly protecting things like the willow, but he never had true drive or ambition. In the end no one would remember the things he did.
The engine catches on the second try and the dirt roads begin to melt away and I am pulling onto the highway. Half an hour later I am parked at the Oak and Apple Diner. Sitting at the bar, sipping coffee always feels strange to me, too ordinary. The people around me could never understand what I do, why I do it, what the willow needs.
“Anything other than coffee darlin’?” my revelry is interrupted by a robust, brunette waitress. Its cheeks are as plump and red as a blood bag, primed for donation and I cannot help but imagine the blood draining from those cheeks before and after the cut. The before is always better. It’s a moment of true power; when I know and it knows that I am the only thing standing between life and death. I may as well be God in that moment; those are the only moments when I let myself believe in God. Those are the moments when I know the power I wield must be cosmic.
“Biscuits and gravy,” I smile. It nods and walks back to the kitchen. The waitress has interrupted my revelry and put my mind back on the task at hand. I put my head on a swivel, scanning for something to bring the willow. There it is, a blonde walking; chin up, straight back, and a determined look on its face.
It sits at one of the booths with a well-dressed man who looks to be in in his mid-thirties. With a neat beard and scarred jaw line the man had that rugged handsomeness that women always seemed to find attractive. The biscuits are set before me, but the entirety of my focus is now devoted to the blonde. It seems to be controlling its partner, a strong personality… perfect.
When they leave, so do I, abandoning the food to grow cold. They drive to a supermarket and then a house. A nice house, the shingles’ shade of brown blends well with the oak trees the house is nestled between. The red brick chimney gives me the feeling of what life should be, of what it could be. I could live there if not for the willow. I wait five minutes and then walk up the driveway and knock on the door, holding a bat against my leg. I glance quickly around, not a soul in sight. I smile, the anticipation of the evening ahead beginning to wash over me like water over stones in a stream.
Luckily the man answers the door and it is simple enough to knock him out and step inside, shutting the door behind me. There it is, attracted by the silence of its partner. I rush forward and it runs, fighting back thrashing desperately in fear, but I manage to get it into my car with hands and feet bound, mouth gagged, and my red flannel shirt thrown over it in the back seat.
After what felt like just seconds I am next to the willow tree. The swaying of its branches exaggerated, sensing the presence of my gift. The now scorching day has dried the ground and caused sweat to stream from every pore of my body. I turn towards my offering, examining its face and wiping my own with a shirtsleeve. Remarkable, no fear shows at all. Surely this would appease the willow. This exactly what it had been waiting for… such a strong spirit.
I string it up and soak in the power before I cut it and sprinkle the blood onto the earth. I sit back in anticipation, but nothing. The willow is not satisfied. Suddenly, the futility of my task crashes into me like a hurricane, “What do you want?” The question explode from my throat in a cry of rage and despair.
I feel something on my face: tears. I know what they are; many of the things shed them. It has been at least a decade since my eyes felt the hot sting of the salty solution. They are hot and make my eyes blur, so that the willow swims in and out of focus. Funny, I can still sense the anticipation that it usually feels when I bring offerings to it. The thing was gone yet the tree still yearned for what was already with it. An idea strikes me.
A dragonfly darts across the water; its wings catch the sparkling of the late afternoon sun on the river. I close my eyes, holding that final image with me and feel the power. In this moment I know this is my life and I know I have succeeded. I let out a slow breath, controlling the outflow with my nostrils, and step.
I feel the gentle tickling of water on my toes, a tightening around my neck, and satisfaction. The willow has what it wants and so do I.