THE LEAF

There’s a tree not far from my yard that I keep an eye on every year, an old maple that’s probably older than all of us.

I pick fights with it a lot.

Somewhere in August, way up at the very top of the tree, I spot the first leaf turning red. It’s always the first one, like it’s telling the others that winter is slowly on its way. Sometimes it makes me want to grab a ladder and pull off its leaves myself, just to shut it up, just so the others don’t follow.

Damn old sage, reminding us that summer went by too fast again.

I know you’re right, you damn tree.

I spent my summer stressed again, creating problems for myself, thinking about work, feeling behind, feeling like someone had been messing with the clock, and here you are, waking me up too early. I haven’t taken the time yet.

Of course you know. You’ve been here longer than us. You’ve seen things. You’re above all that, right? You’ve figured it out. And anyway, when spring comes, you’ll get another chance.

Meanwhile, I can see my own leaves turning white. I tell myself there will be plenty of other springs, but my leaves are going to stay white forever.

Do you get that, damn tree? I don’t have time to waste. I have to succeed. I have to take care of my stuff. I have to raise my family. I have to send my emails and remember to empty the trash.

Stop pissing me off with your red leaf.

How am I supposed to take time with both hands?

I think maybe that’s where I’m wrong.

Time isn’t really something you take. It’s not a rock. It’s not a handle. It’s not something you can grab tight before it leaves. I can be mad at my tree all I want, but at least it understands one thing I still have trouble accepting: it just stays there.

It grows when it’s time to grow. It turns green when it’s time to turn green. It turns red when it’s time to turn red.

It’s just there, the bastard.

And I run around telling myself I’ll take the time later. When things are less crazy. When work is more stable. When the kids are older. When I’ve finished the three important things that are supposed to give me peace, but only make seven more appear right behind them.

Except the damn tree, with its red leaf at the very top, is telling me something I don’t want to hear: later is often never’s favorite disguise.

So I try to negotiate with it.

I tell myself that, this year, its first red leaf might not just be the sign that summer is slipping through my fingers. Maybe it can become something else. A reminder. A little flag planted in the sky to tell me: hey, big guy, there’s still some of it left. You’re still here. Your family is too. The air is still warm. The dinners outside aren’t all over yet. There are still walks to take, stupid jokes to make, fires to watch burn for no good reason.

Maybe that’s what it means to take time with both hands.

Not grabbing time itself, but grabbing what brings me back into it. Because deep down, the tree isn’t stealing my summer.

It’s showing me that summer is still here.

And maybe that’s what pisses me off the most. Not that it’s right. That it’s kind enough to remind me before it’s too late.

So keep your leaf, damn tree.

I’ll probably still yell at you again next year anyway.

But this time, maybe I’ll take it as a sign to close my laptop, go outside, and stop pretending for two minutes that my life is going to start once I’m done with my to-do list.