Interview

It was a maple. It had hung on, stayed around, watching all the action, taking it all in, refusing to follow the crowd. I had seen it and admired the tenacity of the Last One to Fall.

So I wanted to ask it why.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it was not my time.”

“But why now?”

“Because it was cold, and I was lonely.”

I looked him over, saw the rough edges. “You look tired.”

“Yes. I ran out of endurance. I couldn’t hold on any longer.”

The wind kicked up and he danced a bit in it. I was surprised at the loft he had left. “So it’s not over yet.”

“No. Still some life here. Don’t write me off. I’m not done.”

Any color was gone. He was not bronze or gold or brown, but ashen. The sugar had gone out of his veins.

He looked up at where he’d been – far away in the heights. There was nostalgia in his brittle nature.

“But it will be soon; it will not be long.”

And a strong breeze caught him, tossed him up and then down and he lost another part of himself. He flew up again, higher now, reaching and straining to resume his place in the world. The air threw him against the tree and pieces of him scattered in an autumn march, circling and climbing, carried into the sky by the enemy that brought him down after all.