Patrick and
I were lying under a maple tree in an old German cemetery looking
at the golden leaves falling down. I thought it would be the last
warm day that fall, and I was right; the next day the storm came
and tore off all the red and yellow leaves and left the trees naked
for the coming winter.
I told Patrick I was always afraid of winter; it reminded me of
death. I told him about the dead black kitten with a white spot
on its chest, which I had found in the barn one cold winter morning
when I was seven. Its cold, stiff body fell down from my hands and
I ran away, crying.
Curious squirrels came close to us, standing on their hind legs
looking at us with their dark, shiny eyes, their bushy tails moving
slowly in the wind.
Patrick was like a homeless kitten, following me, having a sad look
in his eyes and his trembling lower lip. I couldn't leave him, but
I didn't know what to do with him; he was neither a child nor an
adult. He rode his motor bike like a man, but his eyes got misty
and sad when he told me about his father, who had moved to L.A.
with his new girl friend and about his mother who had lost her mind.
Soft, hazy sun touched our faces when we were lying under the maple
tree in an old German cemetery. The grass under us still smelled
of summer, but the dying leaves on the ground had a strong bitter
smell that was the final signal - the winter was coming.
I didn't know what to do with Patrick. I had told him I wasn't his
mother, I couldn't even adopt him, and he was too young - or I was
too old - for us to become lovers. But he continued to follow me
like my own shadow, and his sad eyes and his trembling lip made
it impossible for me to ask him to go away.
Patrick turned to me, laid his hand on my breast and let it rest
there, light like a paw of a cat. I saw a sudden hasty smile on
his face. I felt sleepy; I had no willpower to think about what
to do with him. Golden leaves continued to fall down, covering our
bodies when we were lying under the maple tree in an old German
cemetery, the last warm day that fall.
© Marja Hagborg June '05
email: marja@pobox.com
An
Interrupted Run- Maja Hagborg
More
Fiction here
|
