There was a lone tree outside of my house. When autumn came around, the leaves would turn red and fall onto the ground. Small animals found shade under it, and the birds dwelt in its branches. It was a beautiful sight to behold.
One day, I was standing beside the window in my room, staring at the wonderful view that I had long taken for granted. I opened the window to feel the fresh air, but along with it was the unexpected scent of a delicious pie.
“Breakfast is ready, Jim!” shouted my mother from the downstairs.
“Yes, Mom!” I replied.
I rushed down to the dining room, and saw the exact scene that I had used to catch every morning. My father was reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee and a piece of pie in front of him. He sat on his usual chair, and said nothing when I greeted him. My mother, however, was busy in the kitchen. She was washing the baking sheet, and organizing the clean dishes.
“We have some apples left, if you want some!” my mother yelled from the kitchen.
“Okay,” I answered her, half-heartedly.
The pie on the dining table looked attractive and mouthwatering, as it began to stir up my slumbering appetite. And so, I took a knife, and cut a slice from it. The crust crumbled, slightly, and the scrumptious filling oozed out onto the plate. A single bite revealed that the amount of sweetness was impeccable, and the familiar taste brought comfort to my senses.
While I was still enjoying the last bite of my pie, my father took the last gulp of his coffee and stood up. He would usually spend a long time with his newspaper on a Saturday morning, so my mother noticed the deviation from his normal habit, and looked at him with a tiny hint of curiosity.
“Where are you going, Honey?” she asked.
“I have to fix the gutter before the winter comes, or else you and Jim are going to have a tough time,” he answered.
“Oh, I want to watch!” I exclaimed, excitedly.
“Get the tools from the garage, Jim,” said the thirty-five years old man. “I’ll go and get the ladder.”
Our garage was a cramped space that was filled with old things. It was used like a storage, and covered in dust. The old Cadillac sat there, silently, as if she were waiting for the next ride that would never arrive. I picked up the toolbox from the small workbench, and brought it to my father, who was in the middle of securing the ladder to the ground. And as I stood outside beneath the beautiful autumn sky, the red leaves crackled among a few wild ryes.
“Wait here, Jim,” he said. So, I stood under the ladder, while my father began to climb up to the roof. “Pass me the small shovel,” he told me, when he was halfway through the steps. He took the tool from my hand, and started to scrape some mud that had caked the gutter. “Get the hose,” he continued his orders. The task was performed in this same manner until it was completed, and we worked together without missing a beat. But in the end, he was the one who did all the heavy lifting, and I was there just because it was our mutual wish to spend some time together.
“Well, it’s done,” he sighed with relief. We began to pick up the tools that were scattered around, and clean up any remaining mess that was left on the lawn. But while my hands were returning the tools to the toolbox, there was a tinge of regret on the merciless clock.
“Dad, can we play catch?” I suggested on the spur of the moment.
“I thought you said that it was boring,” he replied, clearly surprised by my sudden proposal.
‘It was, but-’
“But you like it,” I answered him. “Right, Dad? We used to do that together when I was younger.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “And you’re a big boy now, aren’t you?” There was a sense of pride in his tone, and a look of melancholy on his expression.
“So, should I get the ball?” I urged him.
“Hah! Sure, why not?” he exclaimed, heartily.
It was a crisp autumn day, and lunch was delayed just because we had so much fun. For with each throw that we made, the harder it was for us to pretend, that the sun wasn’t sinking, and the day would not come to an end. And with each catch that we shared, the easier it was for time to transcend, faster than what we could ever comprehend, shorter than what we could ever hope to spend.
We talked, and we played together. We laughed, and we did everything that day as a family. But no matter how much I wished that time could stop, it did not. When the sparkles of our joy had faded into the reality of the evening, my father spoke to me the words that I hadn’t wished to hear, especially on that memorable day.
“It’s late, Jim,” he uttered, softly. “Go to sleep.” But with a pleading face, I turned my head to look at my mother, who was sitting on the old sofa across the radio, hoping that I could earn just a few more moments of grace. Alas, there was only a gentle smile on her loving countenance, accompanied by a difficult feeling of unspoken helplessness.
“Yes, Jim,” she said. “Be good, and listen to your father.”
With a reluctant heart, I stood up and looked at my parents. The reflections of their only son were on their eyes, while tears were on mine. And thus, the evening ended like the lingering taste of a subtle red wine – bittersweet yet refined.
Alone in my room, I lay on my bed with wide open eyes. The night seemed to show a different side of the world that would forever remain a stranger to the day. The stillness of the atmosphere was soothing, but the disquiet in my mind was not. My sleep departed from me, and the darkness began to whisper to me in the presence of the moonlight. It became even more unbearable after the notion of time had faded into the petty sound of moving clockwork. In the end, I couldn’t take it anymore.
‘Perhaps a little walk would help,’ I thought. My feet touched the cold floor, and brought me out to the small corridor in front of my room. The light was still on, and it made me wonder if my parents had yet to slumber.
One step at a time, my legs brought me towards my father’s favorite spot in the house. And indeed, it was as I had expected. He was sitting on that round wooden chair as he poured his entire attention on the wide canvas in front of him. Each stroke of his brush brought a sense of life to the unfinished painting, and left a mark on his priceless legacy. My mother was gazing at him from a short distance, but her eyes were scarcely on his work, as they had been mesmerized by the sight of the aspiring painter. She uttered no words and delivered no whispers, until my presence was made known by the sound of my footsteps.
“Can’t sleep, my dear?” she asked me. I nodded, softly, and allowed myself to bask in her gentle affection.
Curious about the vibrant shades of red that were on the canvas, I was drawn towards the artwork itself. “Is that the tree in front of our house, Dad?” I remarked.
“Yes, and no,” he answered. “Unlike the living tree that will continue to change its face throughout the passage of time, this painting will remain as it is when I have put down my brush.”
“Then it will forever remain red and beautiful,” I reasoned.
“While that may be true, the concept of beauty is not so simple,” he said. “For example, even this fallen world that we are currently living in is a masterpiece that no artist could ever hope to reproduce.” The woeful pause in his words was colored by a heavy sigh, lamenting the tragedy that he was going to utter. “But alas, we have ruined it,” he whispered.
The painting was eventually finished, and we returned to our dreams until we were greeted by yet another morning. Life went on as usual, but time was running out. After a certain number of days that my heart had refused to count, the inevitable had finally arrived.
The warmth of the sun was nowhere to be found on the day when a young man arrived in front of our doorstep. The jeep, which he had parked in front of our house, waited patiently as he exchanged some pleasantries with my mother. His eyes were stern, even though there was a smile on his face when he was conversing. But I could also sense a small trace of compassion in his tone, when our eyes met amidst the invisible tension. The young man was not in a hurry, but it was beyond doubt that he would not leave until he had accomplished his mission.
My father came out from his room with a rucksack on his back, and a hidden mask on his face. He was hiding a feeling of resignation behind his tender smile. But in the end, every single emotion was merged into an indescribable sadness when we had gathered at the front door of our old house.
“Whenever you are ready, sir,” said the young man.
After acknowledging him with a simple nod, my father turned to my mother and said, “Take care.”
“You too,” my mother replied with a barely audible voice. They were locked in an embrace, as words could no longer express what they would like to convey.
“And you, Jim,” he spoke to me next. “You’re a kind and strong boy, and Dad will always be proud of you.” Those were his words that I could never forget – the words that he told me when my arms were desperately clinging to him. It was the longest hug that I had ever received from him, yet it was the shortest one that I had ever felt in my entire life.
The green jeep rumbled as it came alive, while my mother and I stood there until we could no longer hear the cry of its engine. At last, when all we could perceive was the whisper of the desolate wind, we were harshly greeted by the sight of our home that none of us had ever seen. The same old house seemed vacant, yet filled with many fond memories that had begun to drown every wistful corner of our emptiness.
The next day after that was a day of hope, and a day of yearning. The sadness went away, eventually, and it was replaced by daily habits and mundane activities. The sun arose without fail, and seasons passed, one after another. Each autumn would remind me of his words with its enchanting red hue, and the painting that he had left behind was a constant attestation of the time that we had been through. The longing wait was painful, but we persevered, and remained faithful, until the flag of our country came back to us in a multitude of victorious shouts, with only his pocket watch that returned to us to dispel all of our heartening doubts.
~ Second Edition, by D.S. Rain