Change
I used to walk the streets of New York City holding your hand. My memories were focused on the feel of your hand on mine, the jacket I stole from your closet sitting on my shoulders, and the sixteen minutes of conversation that existed between my front door and yours.
We were freshmen in college, unencumbered by the world. Everything was beautiful. We fell in love alongside the falling leaves, our lives changing alongside the seasons. But fall only lasted so long, and as winter approached, so too did the end of our relationship.
A year later, I walk alone. The streets of New York City are different now, the autumn colors and leaves mean different things. My memories are of the sidewalk crack at the corner, which almost looks like it could be a bird. They are of the park bench with the chipped green paint, where a couple sits every Saturday afternoon, falling in love like I used to. They are of my own hands, in a pair of gray woolen gloves, because while I still remember the feel of your hands, I think I know mine better now.
Some things have stayed the same. The seasons still change, the leaves still fall, and the wind still blows. But you and I walk separately, and the leaves no longer fall for us- but for you, and me, and change.
I have changed, and I think the leaves will celebrate that too.
The Red Carpet
Central Park smells better in the fall. That doesn't say too much, but if you've ever had the displeasure of taking a walk through in the heat of summer, you'd know what I mean. It smells like dirt, rot, and earth. I feel uncomfortable watching her undress bit by bit. I have trouble not being unnerved by the leaves I step on as I trample her youth and virility bit by bit. Soon she'll die.
A glance around the park shows the birds, the people, the animals, and insects that enjoy what she offers. The shade, the fields, the flowers, the walkways, and the water-features. Sometimes I wonder if Shel Silverstein walked the same path I do. Did he try to pick around the yellow and orange leaves plastered to the asphalt?
Too often, I hear people speak about phases of life like the changing of the seasons. If this is it, I don't want it. She buds every spring like a little baby. She opens her eyes and learns and grows. She sprouts into a full woman. Fertile with life of every species, she offers everything to them. We don't even thank her.
We marvel at the colors in the fall. They are the last markers of her beauty. Some travel a hundred miles to catch the foliage. But she's dying. We all sigh and simply wait for the birth of a new year, a new season. Will next year bless us more? We don't even thank her. Have we ever thanked her? Rather, we toss silver cans in her bushes and cigarette butts on her trails.
When the leaves drop and turn brown, we wait and wait and wait for spring. What about the old crone that waits, gnarled and bare? Some admire her pretty white hair on the tree branches and bushes, but we simply wait for her to die, so we may enjoy her daughter's benefits.
She gives, and gives, and gives. We take, and take, and take. When there is nothing left, we sit back and wait until she's dead. Then, we may enjoy ourselves once more. For what is fall but the reminder that she's dying and with patience, we may help ourselves to her fruits.
Central Park is abuzz with activity. People take photos of the leaves. The birds perch in the branches. The path is covered and I have no choice but to walk the red carpet that fall has laid out.
Shifting Leaves
"C'mon, little guy," I whisper to the pigeon as it waddles closer to my outstretched arm. The other pigeons quickly tore through the little trail of bread crumbs which I made, this one's the only one brave enough to get close enough to eat the large chunk of bread that I pulled from my sandwich. He bobs his head a bit, deciding whether to take it or not.
"I won't hurt you." I say softly, looking up at the beautiful reds and oranges of fall as the golden sun slants through the painted trees.
The pigeon's iridescent plumage catches the light, gleaming and reminding me of the glorious summer that melted into this buttery autumn. I take a deep breath in, savoring the delicious smell of earthy petrichor that accompanies the leaf-strewn ground.
People stroll by, walking dogs or with small children running around their legs. The park has some sort of innate calm to it, like a drug that makes everything feel warm, nice, pleasant, perfect, and insanely happy. Here I can even drone out the noises of gunfire, traffic, and screams that permeate regular New Yorker life. I feel so peaceful, from the deepest corners of my soul.
Tentatively, the pigeon reaches it's beak out and nimbly plucks the crumb from my fingers, it flies away and eats it, leaving behind only a single purple feather and a few shifting leaves.
False Memory
The wafel vendor doesn’t recognize me when I pay, but why should he? The park glows with the memory of you for me and no one else. I trace our route, under red leaves that are about to fall. I find the railing and look over the water. Last time, the leaves were green, and there were a handful of paddleboats scudding over the rippling lake. There were dozens of people leaning over this same railing talking, laughing, taking pictures. Today is a still, chilly day. The swans seem to sit stationary on its surface. I can almost believe that I imagined that day, that I never met you.
The Dark
I've seen everything there is to see in my city, or so I thought. The one thing I haven't seen is what it looks like when it all goes dark. The power had gone out, and soon the bombs begin to drop. I'm pretty sure this is the start of a war. This is how it begins, every time. A light in the dark, and the world goes silent but for the explosions, the sound of buildings so well engineered crumbling to the ground.
They're calling it the bombing of Wall Street. How creative.
You ask what the colors are in this beautiful mess, and here is my answer. Besides that sickening black, the colors are the colors of fall. Shades of orange, yellow and red. Nothing but these, and not even the sky is blue anymore, not even the sea. There is too much smoke in the air. I suppose I should add gray to the list. But not blue, and not green. Everything in New York City is dead. I can't go outside yet, the smoke is too heavy. I can't go outside yet, my heart is not ready.