The old leaf

A LEAF fell on my head, and it was very old — in leaf years.

I took it out of my hair and gave it a good look. It reminded me of me.

It was, as am I, in one piece, intact. Old leaves often are not intact, so that was a good sign.

A sign of survival.

Its face was battered, though mine is not so much, certainly not like Charles Bukowski’s.

But still, it reminded me of me. It was skinny and damaged, folded over in some parts. Though I am not folded over, I am skinny. Perhaps damaged. It had fallen off its tree. I too have fallen off my tree, so perhaps that was the principal connection, why it reminded me of me. It felt like a brother, so I brought it home.

That’s it in the photo, the actual leaf. I posed it, and snapped a shot. A bad shot but better than nothing. I gave it a look appropriate for its generation, although my leaf was not born during World War II, as I was.

Never in my life have I felt brotherhood with a leaf.