The sun glistens on the catkins of Salix discolor—the pussy willow—shining as the overnight frost melts.
Soft, tactile, and strong, the catkins uniformly pack branches of a tree that rivals a nearby spruce in height. Years ago, I harvested its bouquets of catkin wands and gave them away at local schools during the early spring. Over time, I realized the catkins that remained turned brilliant gold as they fill with pollen, offering the first feast of spring to hundreds of beneficial insects. I do not harvest the wands anymore.
Like so many, the pussy willow has its roots in memory. This tree is an echo of one I sprouted from a wand and planted in my mother’s garden as a child. I have always felt her in the deep wood of this bush that resides in my garden. But no more.
My mother died in the winter of her life, in the season just passed. I realized today that her presence has also exited the willow.
Far from empty, the willow is transforming again—from bare branch, to catkin, to flower, and eventually into summertime leaf. Willows are known for their vigorous roots and this bush is well planted. The wood is no longer of memory, but of self-agency. Pure life in its own right, unwound from story and seeking the sun and moon of its own journey.
I think my mother would have appreciated that.
Shouldn't...but Do 