The Leaf

Upon his first existence he knew of his demise. Within that first breath of sunlight, he knew of his own fading.  And now, looking back, looking up, he knew that the beginning could never be supported without the end.  He had strived, served, guided, and sheltered; he had been ever present, his face ever lifted to the sweet caress of the sky so that he could do his duty and provide. All so that he may color, present beauty, and then perish upon the ground as the sun dulled and waned. His life was to persevere to the end; acknowledging in every thought that he would shine most beautiful upon his ending breath.

So he found himself, here, now; one of the first to fall because he had been the first to bloom. Brown had never been his birth color and the yellow cradle of summer tested grass, never his home. The leather skin of his youth had crackled and become brittle – a shadow of his former glory. Yet as he lay beneath his mother, watching his brethren continue on, he could not find it in himself to be sorry for what he had been. He had been given life, had given life himself, and knew that to be conceived, to give shade on blistering days, was to also change, to wither, and then to die.

There was no key to his story, no significant revelation that described advantageous properties or victorious adventures. His entire life was to strive for death. And though it was a goal of another’s making, he had claimed it, cherished it, and strove for it with all of his own understanding.

Even in death his being strove for the reminding of others. And by doing so his presence remained in the psyche of all that participated in the product of his death. Although he was no longer beautiful; the colors brought by his ageing, by the softening rays of the sun, had drained away to the unremarkable brown; he had left a new marker. With his insubstantial body he helped usher in the beginning of a season. He had become an anchor of change.

It was extraordinary to think of his simple story; sitting in the grass with nothing but his image. I could be proud of him, I think. I could acknowledge the selflessness of his character, tune into the simple melody of his tale. What would it be to have the unquestioning faith that seemed to guide him; to be proud of what I was; not to despair, but to embrace? That is truly the crux of his tale – that no matter the duration of the life, it is how we live it that supersedes us.

Fall is the dying breaths of summer, trapped in the crumbling hides of the fallen. But despite their sacrifice, despite his sacrifice, we can lay to rest all beliefs of worry. Can we, those who have experienced season after season, retain despair, when the monotonous life a leaf holds to the faith that death is just a season and when it passes new life will color again?