Livermore’s Fallen Leaves

Ican remember the leaves being yellow at the time my sister and newly found love were just getting to know each other. They would look up and stare at the clouds, talking about how fluffy they were and how they looked like different animals. Her face would be tickled by the occasional blow of the wind and the grass would massage her feet as they walked to the nearest river for a dip.

Livermore was just two miles away and it seemed to always have a beautiful cove this time of year. The birds would still be on nearby branches singing summer songs as they would jump into the deep blue of the lagoon and swim with the kissing school of fish. Her face would be covered with mascara running down her cheeks and emerging upon the blue water, staining it black. He would take his hand and wipe away the streaks left upon her face.

Daisies lined the shore as if to sing to the company of Jackson and Omara. Frogs could be heard jumping around from lily pad to lily pad as Jackson chased the little hoppers saying, “We are going to have frog legs tonight, Omara. Frog legs, ya’ hear?”

My sister and Jackson were just giddy over one another and couldn’t stop to think because they were consumed with kissing. My heart was set on Travis, and that was the only reason I tagged along to Livermore. Travis always went with Omara and Jackson to the cove. He would spend hours on end walking through the forest picking leaves off the ground and putting them in his pockets. Quite silly if you ask me, but he said they made good backgrounds for his environmental scrapbook. He would sit and talk to me about the trees- the old hickories that had been growing for years and the maples that he used to climb when he was just five years old and the oak tree down the hill that he carved his mama’s name in just after she died of cancer. He would always point out of bare trees looked like upside down lungs with their braches sticking out the way there did. He would ramble on about how long those trees had been growing there and how long he’d been seeing the same ones grow since he’d been a young boy. I hadn’t the heart to tell him he still was a young boy. He thought for sure he was a grown man, and to me, he was. And he was the grown man that had stolen my heart by picking fallen leaves.

Omara and Jackson could be heard yards away laughing and giggling, while I followed Travis’ every move. He would stop every once and awhile and say: “’There’s a tree that grows in Brooklyn. Some people call it the Tree of Heaven. No matter where its seed falls, it makes a tree which struggles to reach the sky. It grows in boarded up plots and out of neglected rubbish heaps. It grows up out of cellar gratings. It is the only tree that grows out of cement. It grows lushly ... survives without sun, water and seemingly without earth. It would be considered beautiful except that there are too many of it.’ Do you know who said that Kate?”

My eyes would wander around and then I would reply, “Betty Smith. Don’t you think I know that Travis?” He would laugh and keep walking trying to find the most beautiful leaf.

Omara and Jackson would eventually have to find us after the sun began to set on Livermore, Sparkling the sky in magnificent colors of red and pink. Travis would look at me and say, “It’s a sailor’s delight but it’s a romantic’s secret weapon.”

We would ultimately wander home, the four of us still babbling about how the water was cool enough to swim in and the leaves were beautiful, when in my mind all I cared about was the fact that Livermore’s fallen leaves brought me closer to Travis.