Autumn, Falling, Leaves
She looked peaceful, like she’d found home
I never knew why Autumn became my friend: I didn’t have friends… except that August, I had Autumn.
I spent a lot of time at the beach that summer, throwing stones at the sea, and one random Tuesday Autumn just walked up and sat down beside me. She started throwing stones too, and we ended up talking about which ones were best: I always chose flat ones which spun in the air like a discus and maybe skipped once before they sank; she preferred round ones, like a tiny fist punching through the water.
After that, we spent quite a few afternoons on the beach together. It was never arranged: we’d just both be there, equally overdressed for the location and the weather. We had that in common, at least. We didn’t swim, or sunbathe, like the others. We talked about nothing in particular, but mostly we threw stones, and we listened to music.
I’ve never understood music: I only feel it. Back then I was into punk because it was the kind of noise which could help me safely bleed negative emotions. Autumn was properly musical, though. She took piano lessons every day, except Sundays when she sang in the church choir. She liked Gregorian chant, she said, because it filled her heart, “with the beauty of creation and the Creator.”
I played her Bikini Kill’s Statement of Vindication one time. It’s seventy-one seconds of perfect, fast, angry punk… and she said it was beautiful. Then she played me some opera women singing O tu illustrata, which she told me was an eleventh century hymn written by a German nun. She tried to explain that both songs were the same, that they were both about, “finding the divine in the human heart.” She said if Kathleen Hanna looked in the mirror long enough, she’d see it. Except she didn’t know Bikini Kill, so she called Kathleen, “the unhappy girl.”
Autumn’s hymn really was beautiful, though. I cried a lot that summer, but that was the only time anyone actually saw my tears.
The first day of September was a Sunday, and I didn’t expect to see Autumn on the beach, but she was there. We were dressed for the weather that day: we had jeans and hoodies on, as usual, but the chill was already starting to nip through them.
Autumn had a polaroid camera with her. She told me she was heading up to Holland’s Wood, because the leaves had started turning and that would make for good photographs. The way she said it sounded like an invitation so I tagged along, and she didn’t complain.
There was a bird cherry that was nearly bare already with a carpet of red leaves strewn around its trunk. Autumn asked me to take a picture of her with them. She handed me the camera, then lay down and spread her hair out like a halo. She looked like her head was on fire, but she looked peaceful at the same time, like she’d found her true home.
She lay staring at the sky while the photo developed. I showed it to her, and she said, “Thanks. Could you try a close-up?”
I crouched beside her head, but she said that wouldn’t be the right angle. She said I should lie above her, so the camera was looking straight down at her face.
She spread her legs and I lay between them. It felt awkward, because so much of me was touching so much of her, but she looked perfect in the viewfinder, like a work of art.
I told her to smile, and she said, “I don’t want to.”
So I took the picture, then said I was sorry because I’d got too close and I was probably reflected in her glasses.
When I stood up, she held her hand out, but palm down. So I offered her my hand to help her up, then I gave her the still-developing photo. She wafted it about as we walked back to the sea together, then slipped it into her pocket without showing me.
We sat on the shingle for a while: no music, no talking, just throwing stones as we watched the tide go out.
Then she stood up suddenly, said it was getting too cold for the beach now and she was going away to university soon, “So I guess I’ll see you around.”
She tried to hug me when she left, which was awkward, but she was my friend so I let her.
I found the second photo in my hoodie pouch when I got home.
Even all these years later, I look at it sometimes. I still can’t see myself in her glasses.
Beautiful, Marsha. Just beautiful!
My heart has woken up from hibernation. Thank you! 🍂