Spring | Autumn Fall

He came back to the bench every day anyway. He brought a thermos of tea and two cups—one for him, one for the tree’s roots. He read Lena’s favorite poems aloud, his voice thin as old paper. And he waited.

The next morning, he found the first branch on the ground. Not broken by wind— laid down , gently, like an animal curling up to sleep. He gathered the fallen twigs and arranged them in a circle around the base of the trunk. A wreath. A promise. autumn fall spring

But they didn’t see what he saw.

One for you. One for the fall.

And the tree would answer.

Not in words, of course. But a single leaf, high on the easternmost branch, would let go. Not fall— leap . It would twist down through the golden light, spinning like a dropped coin, until it landed in his lap. That was the signal. Autumn had begun. He came back to the bench every day anyway

He had known for months. The arborist had used gentle words— vascular decline, root compaction, advanced age —but they all meant the same thing. The maple was letting go of more than leaves. Whole branches had gone brittle and bare. The trunk had developed a long, vertical crack, like a scar that refused to heal. And he waited