Leaves and Trees
J B Mulligan

The number of people who knew my parents gets smaller as the dead fall off around me. A mail clerk at his office. A college classmate of hers. They may not even remember, in the flooding of their own lives, that they knew one of my parents. The past is so long ago that most of it has vanished, echos of echos down long shadowed corridors, crossed by tramping feet, and thick with a serpent's knot of tangled voices. So much importance, dissipated. That any of it is left, seems beyond the reach of the mind, that child's hand in the dark. I could never explain this to my children, though it opens around them, ripe with fruit and bright leaves. Do they treasure these limited, recurring feasts?... As I failed to do back then, as my parents, young and shiny, failed to do.

First published: May, 2008
comments to the writer: doorknobs@iceflow.com