way to the hospital, I came upon an old man in a thin grey cardigan, raking leaves and stuffing them into a big plastic bag.
A lot of stooping, I said sympathetically, pausing to talk to him. He straightened up. He had a rather jagged white moustache, a widower’s hump on his back.
It didn’t used to be this way, he said. Do you remember the bonfires?
Oh, yes, I answered.
End of October, he recalled fondly, early November. We’d all come out on the same night and light ’em up. Bonfires all up and down the street. It was a beautiful sight. Illuminated the entire city. Neighbourhood children running around, excited. On a cool fall night, the heat from the flames on our faces. The smell of burning leaves — that bittersweet perfume — I’ll never forget it.
It was a simpler time, I agreed.
Life seemed purer back then, he said.
But it’s a relief — don’t you find — to outgrow innocence? I asked. He shook his head.
All the glory of the old days is gone, he said. All the imagination. Now they want us to use these bags. Everything these days has to be packaged. In the old days, I would have gathered up the leaves, piled them, burned them, swept up the ash and put it on my gardens to fertilize the next spring’s flowers. It was a perfect cycle. It made sense. Now they come with their trucks and cart theleaves away and God knows where they end up. Glad my wife didn’t live to see the changes.
She’s gone?
A year ago. Diabetes. Our kids flew the coop long before. All that’s left now is me and the leaves.
We stood together on the sidewalk, enjoying the heat of the day. The sun fell on our narrow shoulders, our weathered hands…
I’ve become so used to my daily excursions to the hospital that it hardly seems possible I ever had an existence other than this. I’d completely forgotten that the small celebrations of life are still glowing like candles in these darkening days. I seem to have missed Thanksgiving altogether, though something inside me says I’ve more to be grateful for this year than at any other time of my life. On my journey to the hospital one day this week, I saw a skeleton in a house window, taunting me with its sardonic grin. My eyesight is so feeble that I was frightened by it, thinking for an irrational moment that it was William mocking me, for he’s grown alarmingly thin. Then I realized that, of course, Halloween was nearly upon us. Hadn’t I noticed pumpkins piled in grocery store bins or carved and grinning on household verandas? Still, I couldn’t shake the notion that this leering skeleton was a bad omen. Clammy with fear, I rushed to the hospital and up to William’s room. There he was still, breathing shallowly but quite alive. I reached out and touched his feet, found them cold as stones. He’s lost weight on his diet of clear, life-sustaining fluids and his false teeth lie in an envelope somewhere, leaving his face quite hollowed out and foreign. I sat at his window, which gave me a view of trees raining leaves.
“The Man Tree is completely naked now, William,” I finally said to fill the silence. After all these years of listening, it seems it’s my turn to speak. “And the Wife Tree has turned orange and gold at last and it’s amazing the way she shines forth on her own, now that he’s all stripped down.” But then I realized this wasn’t an appropriate thing to say and for a moment I hoped that William was deaf as well as mute and hadn’t heard my foolish words.
It was at that very instant, however, that his eyes began to flutter and he opened them fully. I rose from my chair, my knees trembling.
“William,” I said, “you’re waking up from a long sleep. You’re in the hospital. You had a little stroke. It’s me, Morgan. Can you hear me? Do you understand?”
I rushed out to the desk and told them, “William has regained consciousness.” A nurse followed me back to the glass room and took his vital signs. This exercise alone appeared to tire
A lot of stooping, I said sympathetically, pausing to talk to him. He straightened up. He had a rather jagged white moustache, a widower’s hump on his back.
It didn’t used to be this way, he said. Do you remember the bonfires?
Oh, yes, I answered.
End of October, he recalled fondly, early November. We’d all come out on the same night and light ’em up. Bonfires all up and down the street. It was a beautiful sight. Illuminated the entire city. Neighbourhood children running around, excited. On a cool fall night, the heat from the flames on our faces. The smell of burning leaves — that bittersweet perfume — I’ll never forget it.
It was a simpler time, I agreed.
Life seemed purer back then, he said.
But it’s a relief — don’t you find — to outgrow innocence? I asked. He shook his head.
All the glory of the old days is gone, he said. All the imagination. Now they want us to use these bags. Everything these days has to be packaged. In the old days, I would have gathered up the leaves, piled them, burned them, swept up the ash and put it on my gardens to fertilize the next spring’s flowers. It was a perfect cycle. It made sense. Now they come with their trucks and cart theleaves away and God knows where they end up. Glad my wife didn’t live to see the changes.
She’s gone?
A year ago. Diabetes. Our kids flew the coop long before. All that’s left now is me and the leaves.
We stood together on the sidewalk, enjoying the heat of the day. The sun fell on our narrow shoulders, our weathered hands…
I’ve become so used to my daily excursions to the hospital that it hardly seems possible I ever had an existence other than this. I’d completely forgotten that the small celebrations of life are still glowing like candles in these darkening days. I seem to have missed Thanksgiving altogether, though something inside me says I’ve more to be grateful for this year than at any other time of my life. On my journey to the hospital one day this week, I saw a skeleton in a house window, taunting me with its sardonic grin. My eyesight is so feeble that I was frightened by it, thinking for an irrational moment that it was William mocking me, for he’s grown alarmingly thin. Then I realized that, of course, Halloween was nearly upon us. Hadn’t I noticed pumpkins piled in grocery store bins or carved and grinning on household verandas? Still, I couldn’t shake the notion that this leering skeleton was a bad omen. Clammy with fear, I rushed to the hospital and up to William’s room. There he was still, breathing shallowly but quite alive. I reached out and touched his feet, found them cold as stones. He’s lost weight on his diet of clear, life-sustaining fluids and his false teeth lie in an envelope somewhere, leaving his face quite hollowed out and foreign. I sat at his window, which gave me a view of trees raining leaves.
“The Man Tree is completely naked now, William,” I finally said to fill the silence. After all these years of listening, it seems it’s my turn to speak. “And the Wife Tree has turned orange and gold at last and it’s amazing the way she shines forth on her own, now that he’s all stripped down.” But then I realized this wasn’t an appropriate thing to say and for a moment I hoped that William was deaf as well as mute and hadn’t heard my foolish words.
It was at that very instant, however, that his eyes began to flutter and he opened them fully. I rose from my chair, my knees trembling.
“William,” I said, “you’re waking up from a long sleep. You’re in the hospital. You had a little stroke. It’s me, Morgan. Can you hear me? Do you understand?”
I rushed out to the desk and told them, “William has regained consciousness.” A nurse followed me back to the glass room and took his vital signs. This exercise alone appeared to tire
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