Falling

Maybe fall is my favorite season because it most closely parallels my own life. Girls in sweaters stand in awe of leaves as they loose their pigment and turn brilliant shades of red and orange and gold. Boys in jackets watch as leaves float through the sky, kissing the ground. Most everyone awes at the beauty of it, the goodness of it. But fall is not these things. Yes, fall has been perceived this way, a sight that ought be seen, but it isn’t reality at all. Fall, actually, is death. One after the other, leaves dying, fighting to hold on but inevitably failing, falling. Yet so many look on with longing eyes and hearts are filled with joy at the mere idea of leaves that shake and rattle. But the leaves—they are dying, they are dead, they cease to be anything more than a shell, a thin and fragile thing. Maybe I am the leaves. Those who cross my path generally tend to be touched for the better and I’ve seen my fare share of smiles ignite because of the work of my own hands and mouth, but I am fleeting—and I’m dying, slowly at first, but quickly in the end, inevitably failing, falling.

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