Autumn in the Park

In my quest to get more serious about my writing, I've been trying to write more short stories that are diverse and outside of my typical work (mystery this/comedy that/etc). And, more to the point, I need to write something other than the big long thing I've been working on since last year. So this is another story I wrote, inspired by fall, October, and J. Michael Straczynski, oddly enough. Anyway, I hope you enjoy "Autumn in the Park."

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The fall leaves blew in circles across the gray sidewalk. The grass was littered with them, its pale green color obscured by their oranges and browns. It was October, and the little children knew that it was time to make heaping piles of leaves for play. Their cheeks were rosy and their noses were runny, but they didn’t care. They loved the leaves, and that was all that mattered.

The walk curved to the left ever so slightly, following the black road. Naked trees reached out their arms, creating spiny arches over the road. All was dead, and all was beautiful. That was what was so mesmerizing about autumn. It made death beautiful.

She loved fall. Oh, yes, she did. I remember once she told me that if it was fall all year round that she would not miss the other seasons. She enjoyed them well enough, but fall was so different, so versatile. Some days were memories of summer and others hopes of winter, and some were simply fall, no other way to describe them.

I reasoned that now would be the best time to try to talk to her. Maybe the season would calm her, make her more receptive. If only she would listen, I could explain so much.

I looked about the park. Save for the children and their mothers, it was deserted. Most people favored a cup of tea and a warm room this time of year, but Mary had taught me to love the season.

I loved Mary, and Mary loved the fall. It was quite that simple.

The green bench was peeling and chipped like it had been the day we met. Whether yesterday, a thousand years ago, or longer, it made no difference. The memory was there, clear and unmarred. It had been a day just like this one.

We were strangers sitting on a bench. I was reading a newspaper, and she was anxiously holding a purse. I was on leave from the service. I was young and the world was such a large place. There was still some mystery left out there, wherever “there” was. The whole planet was an unexplored territory, and I was its conqueror. I liked to believe that I was invincible. Maybe I was. I’d never get the chance to really find out. The war ended a week before I resumed my tour of duty. But on that day, the prospect of battle was still a burning notion in my mind. The paper was all talk of killing and gunfire and in my naivety, I was thrilled by it.

Young fool, I thought, seeing myself now, a lifetime ago, sitting on that bench. You wouldn’t have even noticed her if she hadn’t said—

“War is ugly.”

I looked up from my paper, shook it to straighten it, and then folded it down. She was beautiful. That was my first thought. She was bundled in a pink jacket, furred with gray, and a matching pink hat set squarely atop her head. I believed for a moment that a host of heaven had taken the seat beside me. But, as I said, I was young and arrogant and therefore chose to ignore that. I snidely replied, “And how would you know, lady?”

“I can read just as well as you, sir,” she politely answered. “I’m sensible enough to know when something is good and when something isn’t.”

“Well, look now, I’ve been there, you see?” I pointed to a picture of the European landscape that the paper had placed on its front page. “I’ve been in battle and it makes a man feel alive.”

“From what I’ve heard, it can also make one very dead,” she said. A hint of a smile curved her lips. She beautiful and full of sass and I was arguing with her.

“Aw, you women are all the same. Scared of death and everything with it,” I said, waving a hand to dismiss her remarks.

“I said war is ugly, not death,” she went on, ignoring my insult. “Fall is my favorite season, yet it’s the season of death. Leaves die and fall to the ground. Flowers shrivel and hide. And still it’s breathtaking. Death can be a beautiful thing, though death on a battlefield isn’t what I have in mind.”

Setting her purse aside, she reached down and picked up a leaf. She held it in cupped hands and looked it over with squinted eyes. A sudden gust of wind snatched it from her hands and carried it off into the park.

“I never really looked at it that way,” I said to her, less arrogant and more intrigued. “Death always seemed so final to me, so grim.”

“Yes, but springtime comes after fall, or before, depending how you look at it. It’s a cycle. Life, death, life, death. There is no ‘final’.” She folded her hands on her lap and looked out in the direction the wind had carried the leaf.

I felt awkward, sitting there in silence. I searched for something to say, but nothing seemed as profound as her words. I was speechless, a rare condition for me in those days, I assure you. Instead, I simply stared into the same distance that she did, wondering what she was looking for.

“Say,” I said at length, “you look like you could use a cup of coffee. I’ll buy it for you. I could use a cup myself.”

She was hesitant. She was that kind of woman. She thought for herself and wouldn’t be swept off her feet by some trigger-happy kid looking to start a fight with some Nazis. I reached over and lightly touched her elbow. “C’mon,” I said, “We can look at the leaves on the way there.”

Cautiously, she stood up and we walked down the same sidewalk that I treaded now. The fall breeze came in a quick burst and the memory was whisked away like the leaves. The bench was empty again, and I walked alone.

I buried my face in my upturned collar, trying to block the wind and forget the past. I passed no one on my way. Every sound was drowned out by the persistent roar of the wind. I was left to my thoughts, and it was best that way. I became so absorbed in them that I nearly passed my destination.

I looked up and Mary was in front of me, here at the end of the park where one lonely bench remained. Like that day so long ago, I sat down and pulled a newspaper from my coat pocket. I turned the pages, seeing words but reading none of them.

After a few moments passed I said, “Hello, Mary.”

She didn’t reply.

“I know you probably don’t want to do this, after what I did. But I thought, maybe, that today, on our anniversary, you would listen.” I creased my newspaper and put it back in my pocket. I folded my hands in front of me and looked at her.

“It’s fall, you know. Your favorite season. I—does it make you happier? I’m not trying to say what I did was right. I know I was wrong.”

She didn’t acknowledge me.

I went on, “I had to leave. You understand that, don’t you? We needed to be apart…I needed to be alone. You’d think that after two people had spent as much time together as we have, they’d know each other inside and out. I guess it just goes to show that everyone has things they keep hidden.

“Do you even remember what we were arguing about? No, I don’t either. It was dumb, I’m sure. These kinds of things always are.”

She still wouldn’t look at me, and I felt a tear running down my cheek. I wiped it away hurriedly. I didn’t want her to see me like that. I needed to show her that I was still the strong one and that I could still be there for her.

“I just wanted time alone, I said. That’s all. And when I came back, we would talk things through. Things would be better then. So I came here to talk and to say I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I would never do anything to hurt you.” I paused. “Maybe my biggest mistake was ever knowing you.”

The wind wrapped its icy fingers around us. It was so cold. Today, fall chose to give us hope of winter.

“I just wanted to talk,” I said again. New tears formed and spilled down my cheeks. They caused my skin to chap and each one stung like salt in an open wound. “I hope you can forgive me some day, Mary.”

I stood up and turned to leave, convinced finally that she did not want to hear my voice, even in the fall, even on our anniversary. I blinked to fight back more tears. I looked back one last time.

Her tombstone was surrounded by leaves. She loved the leaves, too.

“I love you, Mary,” I said one last time. I was alone, and I found now that it was never what I had really wanted.