Falling Colors

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Story from Katrina Green

The weeks ticked by and soon it was October.  All the leaves on the trees were now anything but green.  A few had fallen onto the ground and were beginning to turn brown and dead, while majority clung to the tree holding on to life for as long as they could.

        I was in my room staring at the acres of trees in my backyard.  I envied the leaves that were clinging so desperately to the tree for every bit of life possible.  They weren’t ready to die, they wanted to stay in this world for as long as possible, suck in as much sunshine and warmth that they could before the winter came bringing cold and death with it.  Similar to old age.  

      There was a story my mom used to tell me when I was little.  She had written it out herself, all proud and even drew little narrations to go along with it.  I walked over to the tiny bookshelf that hung next to my closet door and pull the old battered orange, yellow, and red journal from the shelf. 

       The cover was covered in a mirage of those three colors, all swirled together.  If you unfocused your gaze on the book it looked like a pile of fall leaves, or the top of a tree in the fall.  Either way, it represented fall which was my mother’s and my own favorite season.

       Slowly walking back to my bed I sat down on the edge, and placed the book on my lap.  I stared at the journal for the longest time having the internal debate if I should open it or not.  I hadn’t read anything that my mother had written since my father had given me the letter from her weeks ago.  It was too hard for me to do these things, and Dr. Jacks had told me that to get better I had to move forward and not keep reliving the past.

       Dr. Jacks wasn’t my therapist anymore and I was free to do what I wanted.  Cleo hadn’t said anything about ignoring my past, nor had she said anything about embracing it.  She had said to take chances, so this was a chance I was taking.  If it sent me over the edge again then I’d know not to do something like this again. 

       With shaking hands, I opened the book, and stared at the first page.  It was blank, but I could already see through the page to the outline of the drawings my mom had drawn in black ballpoint pen.

       I turned the page and was met with the first drawing and sentence.  I hadn’t read anything since I’d started therapy and soon I felt the overwhelming sense of love for books my mom had taught me.  My mind instantly went back to the feeling of content and all the thoughts that were constantly echoing through my head were put at bay and gone.  The only thing I heard were the words on the page.

           Aislinn sat on a park bench looking out over the snow covered playground. It was deserted now, no children would be there to play until the snow was long gone and the sun was shining brightly so that it was warm enough to come outside without layers of clothing on.

     “Hello,” came a voice from behind her, “mind if I sit down?”

     Turning, she sees an elderly man in a trench coat, hat, scarf and mittens approaching the other end of the bench. He is holding the day’s newspaper.

     “Sure,” she shrugs, and turns her attention back to the playground.

     “It’s so quiet without the children here playing, isn’t it?” the man inquires as he takes a seat on the opposite end of the bench.

     “I guess,” Aislinn answers.

     “Makes me miss the summer, but I suppose it will be here soon enough,” he says with a small chuckle.

     Aislinn doesn’t reply.

     “Do you like the summer?” he asks, trying to start a conversation once again.

     “Yes,” she mumbles without looking at the man.

     “I do, too, but I think I like spring best,” he continued, “It represents new life-- the trees budding, animals coming out of hibernation, and the sun breaking through the grey winter sky. It really is a beautiful thing.”

     “It is,” she concedes, giving a slight smile.

     “Summer on the other hand represents the epitome of life. The trees have their leaves, giving full shade from the hot summer sun. Animals lose their winter fat and enjoy the long summer days. People are out and about enjoying every minute of the short burst of warm weather we have. Similar to how parents enjoy the short time they have while their children are still small.”

     “Very poetic,” Aislinn replies, her attention fully on the old man.

     “You think so?” he asks with a coughing laugh, “My wife likes to make fun of me for the ‘poetic’ things I say.”

     “I’m sure she enjoys listening to it though,” Aislinn assures.

     “I suppose she does,” he agrees thoughtfully.

     “What does the fall represent?” Aislinn questions, wanting to hear more of what this man has to say.

     “Ah, the fall … autumn colors are so beautiful. It represents change. The leaves, once crisp and green, slowly turn different shades of orange, yellow and red. Eventually they start to shrivel and wrinkle; becoming weak and fragile. There’s still a bit of life left in them, though,” smiling to himself, “People are out enjoying the warm weather while it lasts. Animals begin preparing for winter. And the sun sets earlier, making the days shorter.”

     Aislinn nods, and waited for the man to continue with the next season.

     “Winter is possibly the saddest season, it represents an end. The leaves are gone and won’t be back until spring. Snow begins to fall and slowly covers barren branches with a coat of white. All you see outside are bare trees and snow covered ground. No one is outside. There is no laughter from nearby children who used to play in the streets. No conversations overheard from a neighbor’s picnic. The parks are empty, except for the few scavenging squirrels and pigeons. The sun is hidden behind the grey winter sky.”

     “But everything will be back in the Spring,” Aislinn says earnestly.

     “Yes, it will,” he laughs softly, “but as it is getting late, I must make my leave. I don’t want to keep my wife waiting. She’s making a roast tonight for dinner.” He gets up from the bench and walks away in the direction from which he came.

     “Have a good night,” Aislinn calls after him.

     “You too,” he bids back, giving a small wave without turning around.

      I quickly closed the book and threw it to the floor with a clatter.  I wasn’t ready for that.  I wasn’t ready to go back to remembering the things I did with my mom.  I wasn’t ready for reminiscing. 

       My head was in my hands when Leigh came into my room.  I did my best to stop the tears from stopping, but they wouldn’t.  Everything was flooding through me.  The feeling of my missing mom, the missing hugs and kisses, the missing laughs, the missing conversations, the missing words. 

        “Odette, what’s the matter?” Leigh asked, rushing into my room and walking around my bed to where I was sitting on the other side of it.  Instantly her arms were around me, trying to soothe me.

      These weren’t the arms I wanted around me then.  I wanted my mom, not Leigh.  Not some woman posing to be my mom.  I wanted the real thing.  She was the only one who could make this better.

         I shoved her off and stood up, walking out of my room and into the bathroom.  Unfortunately the locks had been taken off the doors so I couldn’t lock myself in there, but I did slam the door, and that gave me some privacy.

       “Odette,” Leigh called through the door.  “Please, tell me what’s wrong.  Are you hurt?  Do you want me to call your dad?  Do you want me to get you something?”

       Yeah, you can get me something. I thought to myself as I sat on the toilet, my head between my knees trying to fight the feeling of bile rising to my throat.  You can get away from me and leave me alone.