Fallen leaf
I’m at a coffeeshop in Brooklyn, crying.
It’s something about a leaf, about the way it fell on the sidewalk. I saw it, stepped over it. Walked on. Turned around half a block later and went back to it, crouched down, pulled the phone out of my pocket with cold hands. Took a photo.
Leaf on sidewalk.
Something about a leaf.
This is the first time in a month that I’ve been away from my daughter. We spend days sitting beside each other on the couch or holding hands on the street. She leans against me in the subway, snuggles into my arms at night. When a shadow disturbs her sleep, she turns toward me, drapes an arm across my body, wraps a heavy leg over mine. In the morning, she asks me to come back to bed, to bring my coffee, to be close to her.
I am always close to her.
This is my first time away from her, and I cried the whole way here. Not because I missed her, no, not in these few short hours. I’m at a coffeeshop in Brooklyn and I’m crying because of that leaf.
The leaf twists
suspended in air
suspended in flight
and drops
settles
gently serrated edges
hovering over concrete
the lightest heaviness of a delicate stem
holding it
down
She’s seven and a half.
Just after her fifth birthday, most of our town burned to the ground.
Two and a half years have passed since the fire; a third of her life. A third of her life.
We arrived in New York and there was the fatigue of travel, of the push to get ready before we left, of the too-busy months before that. Suddenly, everything was standing still. We arrived in New York and the fatigue took me by surprise.
What does it feel like to spend a third of your life in a burned-up town?
We don’t have sidewalks anymore. Well, they’re still there, the sidewalks, but we don’t walk them anymore. No need to walk through that empty plateau.
The fatigue looked like depression. I couldn’t get out of bed. Three time zones make a big difference, I told myself. We should go to bed sooner. Shift our routine.
My body will adjust to this, I told myself.
I’ll get up earlier tomorrow.
I’ll feel normal. Soon.
My daughter, who has never lived in a city (two-thirds of her life in a vibrant little village and one-third of her life in its ruins), stayed on the couch in the dimly lit apartment. Refused to go outside. “Just five more minutes,” she’d say, and those five would never end. Late morning blending into night. North-facing, indoors.
I thought about her on the walk here. About how the first time I got her out of the apartment with the promise of a playground, a gust of wind hit the tree-lined street and she was surrounded by falling leaves.
A little child
who hasn’t seen leaf fall on sidewalk
since she was four
out of memory
eyes wide with wonder
looking up at strong autumn trees
asking the wind
for the next dancing leaf
I walked to this coffeeshop through the quiet streets of Brooklyn, past old brownstones, plastic Christmas decorations, gated front stoops. It’s almost December and there are still flowers blooming. Roses. New York.
Maybe I was crying before I saw the leaf on the ground. Maybe I didn’t cry, but the feeling rose up to my throat. Maybe my eyes were stinging with tears.
It wasn’t hard to leave her today.
The babysitter said they would call if she misses me. The babysitter said she’d be fine.
That leaf is still there, on the sidewalk, in its delicate perfection. Or — no, I can’t. I can’t know that it will be stepped on, broken, destroyed.
It is still there.
The lightest stem
holding it firm
I’m at a coffeeshop in Brooklyn, crying.
Something about a leaf.
