The Doves that Strut

13

Never have I walked on this street this alone before. I mean, physically, yes, I've been here alone uncountable times. Every time I left Claire's home, I had to walk down this street alone to get home, but I was fine with it because I still had memories as companies. Her words, her laughter, her smirk were what kept me onward in the bone-chilling winds as they topped up my heart with faith that I was going to see her again, that there's a sequel to our seemingly never-finishing fairy tale, that we would, in the distant future, have one of those ordinary happy endings in films. But today, I'm not a disciple of hope. My heart is hollowed, and it feels like the more I try to reminisce about my story with Claire, the vaguer her face, words, laughter, and smirk will become, until there is nothing left in my mind except her six-letter name.

As if my thoughts are bottles of bleach.

My tears have dried off, but their stickiness remains, like the paints in her artist's hands, except my cheeks faintly sting at every twitch in my face. My steps are light, nearly weightless, and slow, not making a sound that'd break the evening silence.

Roosting between me and the road is a line of maple trees, swaying fifty feet away from each other.

"Why the fuck did they think planting maple trees alongside the road would be a good idea?" she'd wonder.

And I'd say, rationally, "Because it looks nice?"

"They have such teeny trunks and widespread branches. They'd collapse and cause accidents as soon as a typhoon hits Fragranceport."

"Okay, chill, Captain Optimism," I'd giggle, raise my head, my sight gently tracing the branches to their leaves. "At least right now, they're beautiful..."

"Like you," I would say, if I had the chance right now—words I have for a long time thought too cheesy, and been too shy to say. I've only told Claire how much I 'love' her, but it means nothing, right? Without the words that haven't been coined yet, just 'love' means nothing, but it's all I've said. I should have said more. I should have cherished her. I should have been... better.

It all seems a bit too late now, doesn't it?

I wade. Above me flutters a rustle of leaves feebly colliding with each other. Wandering in their shadows, I hardly look up, but I still perceive them. It's a sea of vermillion and tangerine hovering in mid-air, glistening before the streetlights on the other side of the sidewalk. The maple branches wobble, seeming unlikely to rest anytime soon, while from time to time, a few leaves fall off and scatter on the pavement. The street, it's a picture of fireworks launched into the sky, about to bloom.

It's a wonder how nature's able to pause time and present this specific moment to the world, so easily. Look at us. We spent centuries to invent cameras so that we may artificially capture a frame, trying to convince ourselves taking pictures allow us to perpetually own things, especially happiness, but according to the Everine-Peaceman theory, everything in pictures isn't real. They were, but they aren't. There's no point in taking pictures with your loved one when you two are spending time together, because no matter how good the pictures look, they won't last to be real. You need to learn to cherish the present instead of trying to cheat the theory and preserve the present, for, oh well, the present isn't preservable.

So this is why humans can never be superior to maple trees: our pictures are only going to fade as time elapses while maple seeds are going to follow their parents and sprout into infinite fireworks, the fireworks I want to see with Claire.

I reach the end of the block, and I halt before the curb. The traffic light jingles on the opposite side, but not shining colors with its bulbs covered by thick layers of black paint, another piece of evidence held against the protestors—no, it's not my or Claire's work. We're not that type of jerks that'd feel okay with jeopardizing innocent lives by screwing with the traffic. It's just that there are always going to be black sheep alongside a movement...