Maple Leaf

IMG_5228.jpg

When his mom called to tell me, her voice cracking and faltering, I could feel the heart in her chest breaking into more pieces then could ever be counted; more pieces than would ever be healed. His precious life, barely started, had an early expiration date that none of us anticipated.

I think about him every day. I think about the kind focus he gave to our conversation when we walked together. I was flattered by his youthful attention; I knew there was always something more alluring on the phone he kept in his pocket.

The leaf he plucked from the grass on our last walk, a maple leaf, as big as his hand, is pressed into my book of sonnets. I told him that day, with my usual wide-eyed sincerity, that I would keep the maple leaf all of my life. He teased me and laughed at my earnest vow. He doubted me. I did keep it, though, and when I open my book now to see the leaf, it’s dry and withered and threatens to break into more pieces than could ever be counted. But I won’t let it.

 

Roy

I could actually see my seat, 16C, just past the old man’s long right ear whenever he bobbed to the left. Soon I’d be able to unload the backpack that was currently joining forces with my bra strap to cut a groove into my left shoulder. I’d be able to sit down, put my face in my book, and disappear for a few hours into the kind of silence I can almost never find during the semester. But not yet.

Read more