My Name Was Willow

              I decided the morning that my grandfather died

that that was the last time I would breathe the same air

as my mother. She had promised time and time again

that things would be okay, as long as I didn’t give up.

But I told her that I had no patience to wait for her

and I only realized, then that I wasn’t mine, but theirs.

They told me that there’s

only one way for my mother to realize that the Weeping Willow in the front yard had died

months ago. There wasn’t an easy way to make her

see eye to eye with me, because her head was full of air,

and somehow she thought I had grown up

without seeing the Willow at all so she introduced me to it again.

                We argued over and over and over and over again,

and I tried to make her understand that there’s

only so much you can do to make someone want to up

and change their entire life. But the first time she told me to dye

my hair a different color so I could convince my grandmother that I was a worthy heir

to her throne, I realized that I wasn’t myself but her.

                To everyone else, I was beautiful. Long hair, my mother’s eyes, her

patience, and her understanding, but after I was made to be beautiful with my newly dyed

hair and my hidden attitude, I tried to make her love me again.

Grandmother couldn’t understand that I needed fresh air

after she lectured me on how to be a “proper woman”, and told me that there’s

one part of me that I needed to play up—

                my eyes. Those were the only desirable parts of me, the only things      

that would make men line up

for my hand. Because I wasn’t intellectually beautiful as her,

it required dying

my personality a different shade of pink, again and again and again,

just to make them feel like my body was a woman’s body. There’s

no silhouette without a light shining brighter—a more beautiful air.

                With a dying willow in the front yard, the air

reeked of secrets that shut up

the most accurate compliments. But there’s

nothing you can do if you don’t meet her

expectations. You can’t bring the tree back to life again;

there is no second chance for those that have already died.

                My grandfather wasn’t the only thing that died that day,

                I was both my own and theirs, but also on display for her,           

                and the air was no longer clear, so there was only so much time before I threw my hands up again and tried to shade myself.