Fallen Leaves

by Edwina Wang

As the sun feebly shines its rays through a curtain of grey clouds, a biting wind whirls through the branches of an old oak tree, setting up a great rustling that fills the empty clearing with hushed whispers and murmurs. A fiery leaf dislodges itself from its branch, and twirling on a gentle breeze, it ends its dance with a graceful landing in the hands of a young boy. Perched on the edge of a park bench, a quiet thump as a girl sits down next to him jerks him out of his reverie.

He promptly pushes her off.

Her screams of indignation drown out the rustling of the trees as she wails out the unfairness of her treatment. Captivated by the leaf in his palm, he ignores her - but mere hours later, the bonds of an easy friendship bind the two together, assisted by the forgetfulness and honesty of childhood. Their energy is boundless as they caper around the old oak tree, laughing.

It's a war dance. It's glorious.

The leaf lies, forgotten, on the park bench.

Fierce winds and searing suns alternately warp the wood of the bench, twisting it out of shape as time passes. Laughter echoes up the path to the clearing as a girl, eyes shining with mirth, drags a boy behind her as they dash up to the old oak tree, feet pounding on leaves underfoot. Time has stolen the baby fat from their faces and cursed them with gangly limbs and awkwardness. Sniggering, the boy gives the girl a shove, reminiscent of his younger self, who gave the same girl standing before him a push for entirely different reasons. Drunk with youth, they swing each other round in a fast-paced tango, the staccato sound of crackling leaves underfoot providing all the music they need.

The cycle of time continues. Years of hazy afternoons spent in each other's company lead up to this moment, where a bride and a groom sway in each other's arms under the sunset, breathless from escaping their own wedding reception. None of their teenage awkwardness remains - slow dancing under the stars, their silhouettes against a flaming sky are the epitome of grace. Clasping hands, in that moment nothing exists except for them - and the old oak tree that watched over them as they grew from children into adults blesses their marriage with a shower of autumn leaves.

Time passes. Autumn paints the leaves of the oak tree shades of flaming orange and earthy brown. An old woman sits, shoulders hunched, on a gnarled park bench. Loss has deepened the lines on her face and grief, dulled the spark in her eyes.

She's alone.

And there, with the rustling of the oak tree as her music and the night sky as her backdrop, the old woman rises to her feet. She raises her hands to the sky, and alone, partner-less, waltzes tearfully under the stars, dreaming of times long past.

A fiery leaf rests on a weathered park bench.