The Fall

I grew up in a place without trees.  There was no grass.  Yards were concrete and we dreamed of flowers.  Sometimes my brother and I would draw them with chalk.  It wasn’t the same.  We had only ever seen pictures on the TV; they were vibrant, beautiful and far away.  I sometimes touched the pixelated petals, imagining them soft, fragrant, in a vase or garden I could touch.

 

Seasons never came.  In the same way we dreamed of flowers we dreamed of snow or autumn leaves.  A long time ago children made snow angels, leapt into piles of fresh foliage.  There was a oneness with nature in the old films.

I will never forget the day that it was almost autumn.  My brother and I had finished downloading education for the day into our cerebral processors when it happened.  A leaf blew into the yard, just visible out our window.  We rushed to see it closer.  Another fell and then another.  It was a beautiful spectacle.  I raced my brother out the door.

Like children from another century piles of dark brown crinkled leaves lay before us.  I ran with all the speed I could gather and jumped.

Strangely, it was not the sensation I imagined.  I coughed as black dust stung my eyes.  My clothes lit up with the tiniest embers.  The sky was black and growing blacker.  From the distance a factory of immense proportions loomed.  Our leaves weren’t leaves but paper burnt and littered on the ground.