Before the leaves fall
I stand still under the golden Maple Tree. Lost in thought. As a surge of overwhelm looms. The sirens are ringing. Their deafening sound numbs me before I even have the chance to be scared. People rush into their houses. I don’t. Not because I'm stubborn but because I don’t have anywhere to go. Standing out I reminisce about my house, my family. The memories rush to me like the blood in my stomach vessels which cramp me up and make me sick. Have I ever been overjoyed? Elated even? Maybe. That was a long time back, before the war. The season of fall is my favourite. The dried Maple leaves gather on the forest floor, crunching when I step on them. The air filled with the rustic and syrupy smell. The warm golden evening comforted, the way a hug does to a lonely person. But now, the grey smoke of bombs overpowers the sweet Maple air. I stand under this tree not because I’m hopeless. But just to let the syrupy, warm scent of t...