september 12, 2020, 7:53 a.m. Mahala Grace
16
my autumn forest shrivels. standing in her midst, i smell cinnamon apple candles and chocolate chip cookies still baking in the oven. it’s noon, but the daylight doesn’t glare. clouds snuggle the sun.
the ground is glass beneath my feet. my steps meld craters that resemble burial plots. squirrels and birds join the eternal sky after laborious efforts to breathe, bodies sinking into the earth.
her leaves, brilliant shades of mustard, berry, and marmalade, wave in the wind. her cobalt sky, affectionate with timely tears and tranquil breeze, keeps me in her atmosphere. alive with tiny animals and decorated by fallen leaves, her floor grounds me. a river branches in every direction from her middle, singing lullabies for when it’s too hard to sleep.
it would make sense for me to cry at the funeral of a home so dearly loved. years of tending and talking turned to rubble in minutes. colors fading faster than they formed. wilting flowers forced to slumber before their appointed time. soil hardened. water evaporated. air tainted.
my autumn forest shrivels. a wildfire flares from her heart and spreads through the arms of her river, an impossibility made reality by a whim that eludes me. charcoal fills my lungs. the smoke tastes like metal chalk. tears rim my bloodshot eyes, but i strain to see the flames take their course. i cannot bear to look away as her branches crack and crumple inward, warping around their trunks as if to protect them. shrubs grovel at the feet of their enkindled parents. when the families finally embrace, they blacken. coiled leaves gather at the bases of once-great homes. pyres now.
it would make sense for me to cry. but i am lost. i am the void of every crater i lay in the ground. i cannot admit that she is gone, that i do not recognize the gray abyss she’s become. i thought my autumn forest could never die. she is my favorite time of year. the beauty of moments unrealized. the warm melody to coat every frigid day. i feel alone in winter, mocked in spring, exposed in summer. but autumn is the gentle coo of a mother to her sleepy newborn. her wind sings the song i could never put to words.
