FALL
One Sunday when you're taking out
the trash
you realize it's finally gotten too
cold for shorts.
So you put on jeans, a flannel
shirt, and sneakers,
don your leather jacket, and go out.
Your neighborhood is old; the
houses, modest.
The sidewalks and the streets are
strewn with leaves.
Smoke is rising from a neighbor's
chimney
and the smell of burning wood is in
the air.
You head toward the park and take
the trail
that parallels the creek. You walk
beneath
a canopy of red and orange leaves.
Leaves have fallen all along the
pathway
and you listen to them rustle
underfoot.
When you get home you notice
something strange—
just as you're about to pet the
cats,
you see that leaves are scattered on
the floor
both in the foyer and the living
room.
Your wife is cooking dinner in the
kitchen
and leaves are on the floor in there
as well.
She doesn't make anything of it,
says she's noticed the leaves
but they don't bother her.
Beyond that she doesn't comment.
The next morning when you wake up
your bed is covered with leaves.
They're like a second blanket
and they go flying everywhere
when you throw back the covers.
Downstairs in the living room
they're at least a foot deep.
Your cats plow through them
and chase each other about
as if nothing in particular is
wrong.
The entire house smells like dry
leaves.
You go to work.
In the evening
you open your front door
and a cascade of leaves
spills out onto the porch
You wade through them
and find your wife
half buried,
busily answering emails on her
laptop.
The cats are asleep on the
bookshelf—
the only piece of furniture you can
see.
Later
you and your wife clear off the bed
as best you can
and settle in for the night.
But you feel uneasy
and find it hard to rest.
In the morning you go to work.
When you return home
at dusk
you see that the house itself
has become
a house of leaves.
Your wife is standing outside,
wearing her winter coat,
holding the cat carrier in one hand
and her computer in the other.
"We can't live in it now,"
she says.
"The whole place is made of
leaves."
Just then you feel a blast of cold
wind
and you watch as your house collapses
and scatters.
"We'll have to go to a
shelter," you say.
