Autumntime
Josh Briscoe
Blogged in November
When I walk around a crowded place, like my campus in between classes or the mall in my hometown, I can't help but wonder about peoples' stories. Each and every person has a story, and maybe it's a big story for today, or a huge story for this year, or just an ongoing story that encompasses their whole life. A woman I see when I walk past American Eagle may have just had an abortion a week ago. A man I see in the food court may have just decided to shave his beard for the first time in 20 years.
Of course, those things may not have happened. But it's interesting to think about the stories people carry with them. To think, is today a boring day for you? An exciting day for you? How are you living? What are you doing? It's unique for each and every person. The stories intersect and fly off in different directions.
And just imagine if leaves, as many as they are, each had a story. I guess in a way they do. Each leaf grows from a specific place on a specific tree, and sees its share of rain and wind and sunshine. It faces flood and drought, and in autumn, it turns orange or yellow or red or brown, and floats to the ground, its story coming to an end. But I wonder what other stories it might tell.
Star-cross'd lovers walking hand-in-hand underneath the shade the leaf and its brethren lend the ground. Old men on morning strolls. Picnics and summer lounging. Kites caught amidst branches. Cars zooming by, stirring the foliage to life. I'm sure the leaves are witness to a thousand mundane things that we consider a normal part of life, but if leaves could dream, I'm sure they'd dream about those things. And if those leaves could talk, I'm sure they'd have some stories to tell, even if those stories might not be their own.
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