Dead Leaves Falling

My father called me yesterday afternoon, which was odd in itself: he never calls. He sounded so lonely, apologizing for years gone by, water under under the bridge. Things that can never be made up for. Things that can’t ever really be forgiven. How do you forgive someone for never being there? For missing your life? I guess asking to be forgiven in the first place is a step in the right direction. The acknowledgment that there was a wrong done, is at least, something. I didn’t know what to say so I just babbled on about my new puppy. I have a new puppy.

I feel off-kilter lately. All of a sudden, all this painful material is being drudged up from the past and I’m really not sure if I’m ready to deal with it. To bring it up again, confront it. I’m not really the type to address things head on. I prefer to sneak up on them from the side.

My dad told me that it must be the seasons changing, the reason he is so sad. The leaves are beautiful, he says, and it breaks his heart when they start to fall. He picks them up, stuffs them in his pockets and takes them home. It feels good to rescue them, he says, chuckling at himself despite his tears. His apartment is littered with dead leaves. I imagine them in piles: on top of tables, gathered on windowsills, against the door… and wonder who really needs saving.


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