August stumbled into the ruined home, away from the gunfire that was still echoing from the dead forest. He knew that what he was doing was desertion, but that became less and less important as the moments passed. He knew that he was bleeding too heavily, and that it would soon be the end of him.
The air was dry, and he could see the dust begin dancing in the light-- stirred by his arrival. The smell of the old house filled his nose. Along the walls, amber evening light shone on ancient family pictures that still hung on the wall. August looked upon them, and reflected on his own family. His mother would often tell him and his younger sister of her childhood about a life long since gone, and of the seasons which were extant only in the memories of the last people who knew them.
When the days grew shorter, and shorter, families would gather for holiday celebrations, with some even coming from thousands of miles away. They would share news of their lives, and eat foods spiced with cinnamon and allspice. All of this, under the occurrence of the falling leaves of yellow, orange, and red.
As August grew wearier, and wearier, he collapsed against the wall beneath the photographs. A fog began to cloud his mind, and he began to picture himself and his family like they were in his mother's stories; memories of a lifetime that never was. He played scenes of them eating delicious pastries of with cinnamon, far-flung cousins sharing their exciting lives. Joy filled his heart, and a luminous smile beamed from his face as all of this was around him. His eyes gazed out outside, just beyond the window to the falling leaves that fell like confetti. The last he saw before his own sun set.
Zach you talented talented person, this is so lovely, thanks for sharing this
ReplyDeleteThank you, Char!
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