As the willow wept
It was like a garden in those days; row upon row of possibilities, winding paths lined with mysterious sounds and pictures, a carpet of green underfoot. The fountain gushed with artfully turned phrases and thoughtful questions, and life dripped from the page.
And then one day she found the rows had become dry and brittle. Possibility drooped lifelessly, its breath long gone with the wind. The winding paths were lined with the rustle of yesterday’s potential, and the green mounds underfoot collapsed with the lightest of footsteps. The fountain was dry, its paint peeling and curling in the relentless sun.
“You just need to water it more,” they said. “Put down some fresh seed.”
And so she tried.
And then tried again.