Paria Shahir (9) | STAFF REPORTER
I strolled down a pathway of leaves, hand in hand with the wind. This valley, secluded from the rest of the world, is formed from opposite rows of trees, standing as fleets moored to the earth and unshaken against the herald of battle ushered in by the breeze. As I drifted down carelessly, a gust of frenzied wind sprung from behind. The wind, once my companion, snaked its way out of my hand, and right then, whispered the news of a distant deluge approaching from above.
As if brought back to the real world by this sudden surge of emotions from nature, my ears were opened to the rustling of the leaves beneath my feet. Yellow and orange leaves were strewn from the boughs and orchestrated to form a handwoven rug, perhaps as a sign of royal reverence, guiding a passenger of the seasons through autumn avenue.
The sturdy trees interlocked their branching. From down below, they appeared like the most eminent beings on earth; so lofty that even light strained to evoke the same imprint beyond their realms. Within their boundaries however, adornments drooping from the twigs provided a parasol for the passenger, coating everything in orange, even the morning fog.
This expression of affection, the joining of trees’ hands, resembled the interrelation of stars in a celestial map. As I passed through different regions on this map, I noticed that the vines’ outlines reminded me of the way wind and mist flounder and intertwine in the fall. A foreboding flow I have always associated with autumn.
I lingered on every step, savouring the beautiful new sky set above me. I gradually entered a part of the map disparate from the others. It became progressively frigid, and at a certain point, the branches were thereafter destitute of leaves. As there were no leaves left to sway to the dancing wind, a sense of settlement permeated the atmosphere. The valley, now bare, had only the blank snow to protect the passenger from outsiders.
I could see through the dead branches the world I had been avoiding so earnestly every bit of this journey. The fear of catching the gaze of the eyes that awaken the memories of a love confined to dreams is what had sent me to this valley. The trees had been sheltering me from the vast meadow outside, where this love dwells, and I was glad to forget. Yet through it all, I had been fantasizing my love walking along the same path as me, listening to the same melody that the leaves made, in a parallel universe.
I’ve longed to reach my hand out through the undergrowth for as long as I can remember, and hold hands with the person accompanying me; if only I had the strength to break through dimensions. Yet now that the surrounding world had been unraveled, I could see that there is no parallel universe, and no hand reached out desiring to hold mine.
The sense of calmness had long escaped my heart. The snow’s weight only made it seem more forlorn. I suppose the only solution is to morph into spring, to enter the flourishing meadow I have deprived myself from.
I stood at the cusp of spring. The trees were rising from their stooped position, clearing the path for the heartbroken passenger. Pink flowers were blooming. The trees looked like clouds tinted with a soft pink. The path, which first endured a blanket of crunchy leaves, then mud and snow, was now covered with grass and occasionally dotted with little blossoms, sprinkled around like splashes of paint.
The valley didn’t exist anymore, just like the parallel universe I used to yearn for. A world where my love was fulfilled. It is difficult to forget without hiding under a parasol of leaves; but the suppression has to come to an end, and the passenger has to embrace the joy and freedom the spring offers, while lying uninhibitedly down on a hill, taking in the sublimity of the blue sky.
