Going, going, …Posted: November 18, 2008
I stand by the tree. I listen to her. I understand what she feels as her season is now over, and the pieces of her life are pulled away, beyond her control, and she watches them float and fall and go, and she cannot do anything about it. What she once had now lies at her feet. She cannot reach for them, she cannot pick them up, she cannot put them back where they were. They sink into the ground and are trod upon and pushed under the dirt, or the winds blow them down the street and away and they dry up and disintegrate and they are gone. She stands bare and naked and exposed and stripped and robbed, and she calls for them to come back to her. And they cannot and do not.
Soon she will get new ones, though, exactly like the old ones, and no one can tell the difference, and she will stand proud and happy once again.
I wish I were her.