It is a bright glare of yellow on the green that is grass.

It lies there lonely, the first to fall.

Up above in the sky its companions still cling to the branches of trees.

Most are still green.

Green leaves.

Some are just leaves burgeoning into yellow, red and brown.

But this is a solitary leaf.

The first leaf to fall.

They will all fall, in time.

Yet this is the first, the first to fall.

She picks it up from the ground and holds it and treasures it and gently cradles it.

“What do you have there?” he asks.

“The first of them all.” she replies.

They stand there, she cradling the yellow leaf and he watching her.

“It is a beautiful leaf.” he remarks as if there are no other words to say.

“Yes.” she agrees for she has nothing else to say.

“Beautiful and fragile.” he observes as he takes the leaf away from her.

With its dry, crinkled exterior the leaf would be so easy to crush and scattered into tiny minuscule yellow fragments in the air. His hands are strong and it would take little effort. The leaf could break without him realizing it.

“Be careful!” she cries.

But it is already too late.

Without wanting to, by pure accident, the leaf crumbles into his hand. He now holds the yellow fragments of what’s lost.

“I’m sorry.” he mourns.

“It’s okay.” she replies and yet it isn’t.

The first leaf has fallen and now it lies as broken pieces in his hand as the wind blows and scatters the last remaining pieces into the emptiness of air.

He walks away leaving her stand at the green that is grass and the branches of trees with leaves that refuse to fall.

She wonders what it’s like to be the first fallen leaf. She wonders what it’s like to be crushed by his hand and lost in the wind never to be whole again.

She wonders what it’s like and yet she already knows.

*****

The ground is full of fallen leaves today. Pacey rakes them up as necessary. He watches as children play in the mountain of fallen leaves throwing red, yellow and brown in the air. The leaves crinkle and crush under the weight of the children. His rake is mercilessly against these weak, fragile fallen beings.

Pacey drops the rake.

He has not the heart to do what is necessary.

Instead he searches frantically through the pile looking for a replica of that yellow leaf he destroyed some autumn, long ago. There are many that are similar but none match that bright glare of yellow, none are the same size and shape. None of these leaves are the first fallen leaf.

There can only be one.

And he’s already destroyed.

He weeps and the children stop playing to watch a grown man cry.

One child is brave, “Why do you cry mister?” she asks.

Through his tears he sees a bright, inquisitive young girl with a crooked smile and brown pigtails.

“Because.” he has no other reply.

“Oh.” she replies as small droplets of water run down her face.

“Why do you cry?” he cannot help but ask.

“I’m crying because you’re crying.” the little girl replies.

She stands over him, a little girl crying tears of empathy, and a crumpled, weeping man in a pile of fallen leaves.

*****

It is a bright glare of yellow on the green that is grass.

It lies there lonely, the first to fall.

Up above in the sky its companions still cling to the branches of trees.

Most are still green.

Green leaves.

Some are just leaves burgeoning into yellow, red and brown.

But this is a solitary leaf.

The first leaf to fall.

They will all fall, in time.

Yet this is the first, the first to fall.

She picks it up from the ground and holds it and treasures it and gently cradles it.

And she remembers a time when she held a similar leaf and a boy she once knew, who grew up to become a man, told her that it was a beautiful, fragile leaf. Then he crushed the leaf with the touch of his hand, it was an accident, he didn’t mean it but the leaf was already destroyed.

This time she holds the first fallen leaf but there is no boy; no boy, who grew to become a man.

She wonders what happened to that man.

She holds the leaf in her hand and whispers, “I’m sorry.” even as he fingers close in and the leaf crumbles in her hand.

She opens her palm and lets the wind scatter the fragments of yellow into the empty air.

She cannot cry because of the loss of the leaf.

Too many tears have been shed before and now she is dry, as dry and as cold as the winter that looms.

She does not have to wonder what it’s like to be the leaf she just destroyed.

The leaf is only a duplicate, a replica of the past.

For she is the original.

Joey Potter, the first fallen leaf.