"Marty, please," I repeated.
But still he reached down to pop a golden leaf into his mouth as if it were no different from the baked Lays chips his father kept in the kitchen cupboards. He was a handsome boy—my boy—but by god was he a handful sometimes.
I swatted nature's Lays chip out of his chubby hand, "No more of that now."
He frowned and stuck out his lower lip, but I knew it was just a game he liked to play; to see whether he could get a reaction out of me.
"You're getting too old for these games, Marty," He giggled and I mumbled under my breath, "And frankly, so am I."
I thought often of what it was to be a mother, especially when I was with Marty or his father. My boy and I were shuffling through the leaves, his father smoking in the front seat of the Cadillac and watching, but we would be out of his sight soon.
"Here, Marty."
He came rushing forward and pulled the small soccer ball from my grasp. That was a mistake. He skittered away quickly, the ball at his feet. And now I was at risk of losing him amidst all of these trees.
"Marty!" I called.
I turned back to catch his father's attention but the Cadillac was out of view.
"Marty, don't go too far!"
Then I ran after my boy. The leaves swished about on the ground, their golden color swimming before my gaze in a pool of wealth. The singular ones crunched weakly when my boot ran over them, lacking strength enough to last under the pressure on its own.
"Marty!"
I heard the soccer ball ricochet off a tree and fall flatly into a deposit of leaves.
I swerved and careened through an array of trees, and there was Marty. He was sitting amidst the leaves, petting the dog that had recovered his soccer ball as the owner held the leash loosely, smiling big.
I hustled forward, "I'm so sor—" I paused.
I knew this man. My throat had dried suddenly and a dubious expression had veiled my face from brow to chin. He noticed. His smile faded and fell from his eyes, which were now downcast.
"Lost it in a car accident," He said, nodding at his missing forearm.
"No I wasn't—" I started, "I didn't mean—"
He redirected, "You've got a handsome little lad here," And grinned again.
I nodded and answered, "I'm sorry."
He shook his head, "It's a common response ma'am. I've grown quite used to it."
I held a finger in the air, then I took Marty up in my arms, walked him over to a browned park bench, and sat him there with the soccer ball. For once he sat eerily still. I came back over to the man.
"That's not what I meant."
He frowned and furrowed his brow, "Then what, miss?"
"I'm sorry I did that to you," I gestured at his arm.
He said nothing, but his eyes went wide. They were golden like the leaves at our feet, a strange dancing color against his pale cheeks that were now changing in hue. And all the while, his eyes would not leave my own.
"How—"
My shoulders shook, and it was then that I realized I was crying.
"They wouldn't let me see your face. They wouldn't tell me who you were. They wouldn't tell me who crashed into me in a drunken daze and took half of my left arm away."
