falling of leavespublished: 2017-09-22
The sun slashes its way past oak trees, forms sharp rectangles on the grass in the park. The smaller trees are shaken and drop their more fragile leaves, they trickle down to the ground and will soon decay to mush, disappear.
I wonder whether I am ready for winter. Am I prepared for the sting of icy wind? For the darkness of days?
A woman throws a branch for her dog to chase. The dog runs after it with blind and purposeful intent. I watch as it returns to its owner and she does it again. And again.
Winter will come, again. And again.
I run into a friend who I haven’t seen a while. He is wearing autumn coloured clothes, rusty brown pants, a deep green jacket. He blends into this season well. His eyes are a deep brown, his hair is sprinkled with grey. He asks how I am and I tell him I hoped I’d learn to live life instead of survive life.
“Aren’t we all?” he asks, “surviving life as opposed to living it?” We discuss how that’s the very essence of our being, to survive.
On parting our ways, I think of that his wife died a few years ago. She didn’t survive life. None of us do.
A mother and her daughter bike past me. Big bike next to small bike. They have exactly the same length hair, cut in the same style. Mother is blonder though. She looks to the left and a few seconds later daughter does too.
They look at the dog. And I at the gentle falling of leaves.