A Glimpse of Autumn Christopher Tai
The sky blazes red before dinner. A cool breeze filters through, rattling the barren trees and sifting the golden leaves that cover the earth. I can feel it even beneath my heavy winter coat, my fleece sweatshirt. It is a gentle nudge of chill. It is a solemn reminder of the dark days to come, and it is also a final envoy from the bright ones that have passed. I kick around the wood chips on the ground, seamlessly turning over what to little feet had been a sprawling terrain. They are insignificant to me now, save that they remind me of my youthful days, my energetic haze. I pick one up out of curiosity and fling it as far as I can. The wind brings it right back. With my gloved hand, I trace the green metal slide from the top to the bottom, where a puddle of grimy water mulls. How many times it winds, my fingers can count, but only the fruitful event of falling could have told to kids. At the top of the playground, through the bastions and the sky-reaching spires, I see the line that should have been waiting behind the slide. On Fridays especially, I would stand there, eagerly counting the heads in front of me, waiting for it to dwindle to zero. We would wait even when our cheeks turned red, and our mouths began to numb. And we would slide on a most daring act even when we knew that gelid rainwater awaited our rears at the bottom. The metal bites at my hand, so I remove it from the slide. I pass under the bars from which we would swing, evoking a bestial cry every time we grabbed hold of the next. It was pinpointed concentration, utmost determination that guided us across those bars, which threatened the end if we dropped. The kids on the other side would cheer me on, but the kids behind were anxious to see me fall, if only so that they could get on quicker.
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