Red Leaves & Iron Grates (An Exercise)

Her sweater sweeps behind her as the edges of her bangs reverse their curl, reverse outside the brim of her crocheted beanie. She throws the weight of her slightly-too-small body into the center of her peddle-pushing feet. She leans passionately into the winding way of the road. Its a street that slow dances ever too closely with manicured lawns that are manicured meticulously by meticulously manicured hands, and as she navigates through the many layers and layers of blankets and blankets that lay quietly a top the asphalt, the ground begins to crumble. It separates beneath the pressure of her rubber tire, it busts away at the seams with the sound of shuffling cards. The ground is a mixture of dried cherry, the rind of a grapefruit, pencil shavings, the wince of a forgotten lover, and a dirty, stained, slightly embarrassed green that speaks volumes. They are sitting in piles and piles, they autumn’s armfuls of autumn, and they cover the street- the street where she rides. And although she is well aware that leaves change color all over the state, all of the country, she is all the more aware, acutely aware, that in Richmond, leaf changing is done in a particular way.
A noteworthy way.
The correct way.
The only way.
The way she’s accustomed to, the way that fits her best.
So that even in several years, several years down the road, several states from Virginia, in PA, in Cali, in all, in any, in every place, Richmond remains home to the perfect September chill. It will always be known as the birthplace of a seven o’ clock dusk that is brisk like no other. Home to trees, trees far taller than her, trees dressed impeccably well with rounded leaves, round like Christmas caroling cheeks, open and shining like gelatin molds, dancing brightly on their branches like frisky, little squirrels and always alive with the warmth of chats beside fires.
And it is these leaves, these beautiful, already dead leaves, that will carry the memory of home for so many years, a memory that can be seen in all the colors of fall. It is a memory that sometimes glows red, burns orange, or stagnates in a yellowish green that feels cold to the impalpable touch. It is these leaves that carry upon their backs the secrets of childhoods, the secrets that were whispered right beneath their branches, the secrets branded within their skins. It is these leaves that were so heavy with secrets, that they were unable to hold their branches. Leaves that could no longer stay green, leaves that turned brighter and redder than the very first drink, than first base or the first of all firsts, these were the leaves, the beautifully blemished, that fell expectedly into the street, and blushed all the more at their nakedness. These are the leaves that hid out in forgotten rain gutters and the curved ends of driveways, hoping that someone would come along and rake them up and burn away their shame.
These leaves mark the change of every year, the rise in the stakes, the calendar tick marks that prove how another year has past. They remind her that she has wasted yet another year desperately loving someone who does not love her back. So she rides on. She bravely parts her way through the abashed droppings of trees far taller than herself and thinks about the freckled young boy she loves and wishes he loved her back.

* * * *

She walk pasts the grid iron train vents, the beds of bums with cardboard-box backs, and the oily, grimy, balmy, steamy, slick like unbaked brownies, smoke and heat climbs passed her closed toe toes and crawls on all fours up her two legs. She thinks of a lover she once had- a lover she only had once.
She’s in Philadelphia and she don’t know why.
She’s in Philadelphia and she never wears her hair down.
She’s in Philadelphia when the bus passes her by.
It’s a Philly bus, a filled bus, a bus tattooed with large, reflexive, panes of windows upon windows, and in its’ Eskimo style proximity, she swallow its exhaust as easily as the backwash of a shared beer. And the bus shows her, shows her what she actually looks like, other than in photos and in bathroom mirrors, shows her what she look like to others. And she realizes how long she’s been in Philly, she’s beginning to look like it—look like Philadelphia. Still beautiful, but only slightly, in the crevices and the corners, in unexpected ways, like a city hall that dates through centuries, but hides behind defaced buildings and constricted, strangled street corners drowned in litter, and grayed under eyes. Like a bronzed bell, seemingly so important, simultaneously rendered broken and useless. And she always thinking of that one time lover. The lover she once had- the lover she only had once.
And even once months and months have gone by for months and months-- and months turn suddenly to years-- and it’s finally reasonably to look as tired as she does, she’s still thinking about Carver.
She’s Laura and she’s been trying to write this story for far too long. It’s a story that began as a romance, twisted nastily into a drama, and then nearly disappeared, laid on the sidelines for a few years here and there, but always returned. It is a story that follows her along like a piece of food stuck between back molars, like a pimple right beneath the skin, like an in grown hair, like any and all uncomfortabilities. The Story of Carver, which it was originally called, may have began as a story for Carver, about Carver, but it inevitably became the story of Laura, for Laura alone.