A Glimpse of Autumn Christopher Tai

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.

Meanwhile, in limbo I would dance, seeing only the bar in front of me, regarding only my tiny muscles that strained in agony. As I cross beneath them now, I reach up and take hold of the bar, which shudders in complete submission, rooted by my body that was rooted to the ground.

I relinquish my grip and move on. Within that short span of time, I have traversed the grounds that were once my habitat for half the day, the cause for my anticipation, an endearing symbol of hope.

For a split second, I glance sideways to stare at the swing set rocking ever so slightly under the gale, creating a churning noise as it undulates. Every time it went up, I would squirm uncontrollably. Every time it came down, it was as if the world was collapsing in. And we would be so audacious that we would try to conquer fate. We would liberate ourselves momentarily from the controlling grasp of gravity, leaping for the pale moon above like a fettered bird. And when we came crashing down, we would hop back on our feet, and try again.

As they depart from the wooden crumbs, my boots crunch the frosted green grass tinted yellow from the onset of death. I rummage through my pockets for my keys and click until I hear that beep. I run across the lot to the source of the sound, determined to escape from the cold.