We were idling in the Starbucks line in a nearby Atlanta suburb, suspended in a pre-caffeination afternoon languor. The suburbs hold a tinge of the exotic now, like we’re somehow stealing away from our normal lives, hiding out in plain sight, ordering lattes in a drive-thru. Suburban life is a collision of the foreign and familiar, which usually makes me feel nostalgic and melancholy and much more at home than I sometimes like to admit. And on this mini-break from my daily reality, I looked through the front windshield, in panoramic view, and noticed the leaves were falling from the trees. As if on cue. Pale yellow, orchestrated to mark the fall equinox in their whimsical floating patterns. And I felt like I was in a movie, a rom-com most likely. It’s for sure what both the leaves and I, in our charming predictability, are most suited for.
Falling (Leaves)
