Willow wondered when it would be her turn. All the other trees told her it was a great honor to be chopped down. Being chopped meant you were strong. Dependable. Beautiful even. Hazel and Ash would tease willow all the time before they were chopped down. “Be careful what you ask for,” they’d say. “You’re in a huge rush to end up a pencil.” Willow tried not to pay them any mind.
She’d heard whispers about the angel oak tree that was hundreds of years old. Willow couldn’t imagine being in the same spot for that long. Just waiting. Chester had just been crafted into a gorgeous table. Ash wasn’t as lucky, Willow heard she was cut down to be used as firewood. That amused Willow.
Hazel was who Willow was really jealous of. She had been made into a canoe. She traveled the country on different adventures, no two lakes were the same. Willow wanted to be that lucky. She’d even settle for being a paddle.
When the woodworker walked down the path, he’d rest his palm on her trunk. He’d keep it there. Sometimes a few seconds. Sometimes for an hour. At these times she thought the woodworker could feel her longing to be something more. He’d always walk away mumbling about her not being ready. Willow wondered what he meant by that. She knew she wasn’t the strongest tree or the biggest. Willow thought of herself as wiry. She just knew her calling would be something magnificent.
One frosty morning, the woodworker came trudging down the path. Usually, he’d be alone. Today, he had people with him. He usually brought different types through the trail, but this lot was different. They were rugged. Their faces were covered with thick, bushy fur.
Willow had seen types like him before. They usually only came around when a tree was being chosen. Willow could feel the leaves standing up at the edge of her branches. She hated feeling hopeful but deep in the pit of her trunk, she knew they had come for her.
Suddenly it seemed the woods stood still. All the animals were watching. He led them right to her and put his hand on her trunk. This wasn’t possible, could it be? Willow’s time had finally come?
She didn’t even have time to think about it before one of them cranked a large, loud tool with sharp points. He started to cut into her. None of the other trees had mentioned how much this hurt, nothing could prepare her for this. The blades ripped through her like paper. Before Willow knew it, she came crashing down.
That was the hard part. it was only a matter of time before Willow would be a boat or a plane or something great. People would be in awe of her beautifully crafted hull. Her pattern would be the stuff of legend.
Soon after hitting the ground the men hacked her into smaller, more manageable pieces, they lugged her into his workshop. The old man got straight to work whittling her into fine pieces of wood.
Willow tingled with excitement as each chip brought her closer to what she was supposed to be. The craftsman chipped and felt his way around with an air of familiarity and expertise. Day and night he toiled.
Some days he whispered to her lovingly. Willow was his confidant, his best friend. Other days he’d say nothing while meticulously toiling away. This is how the process went, day after day, month after month.
One day the woodworker eased himself off his stool. He looked exhausted. Each step seemed laborious. He looked at his finished product tenderly, as one would a child. Willow had always wished to be looked at that way. The man rubbed his hand on her smooth finish, blew off the dust, and stapped back to truly admire his creation.
Willow couldn’t believe it. She desired to travel but what the woodworker had in mind was better. He had crafted her into a coffin. A sturdy, dependable coffin.
This was his wish. To be laid to rest on his accord. Willow would be his final project. She could live with that.