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.