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 the leaves soak into my nostrils, before the leaves fall off. 

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