and all the leaves,
until only trees stand...
I think, I have known autumn too long.
—e.e.cummings*
Autumn
I met a girl in Central Park who loved clouds as much as I, so I added her to my Cloud Appreciation Society.
Truth was, I quickly became entranced by her because she was so elemental.
She reminded me of a beautiful rainstorm.
I suppose that's why we bonded right away and ended up back at my Gramercy park townhouse.
I lit the fireplace and we sipped Shiraz. It began to rain and we sat for hours, watching the splashing terrace and talking in the drowsy tones people use staring into fires or flames.
We made love in a mist. The window was open to the night. White curtains billowed and floated on the breeze. The sheets smelled of the sea.
I must have fallen asleep, because when I awoke, it was after midnight and she was gone.
I went to the Park the next day, to my usual bench. The clouds were towering over buildings and trees.
I imagined the Cloud Men from my childhood—the ones who puffed their cheeks and pushed the cloudy floats—arranging and rearranging the puzzle pieces of the geography of the sky.
Their unseen hands were busy at work shaping and reshaping sky castles and mountain ranges and the dark blue bays where the Moon sleeps at night.
I sat admiring, but waiting. She didn’t come—nor the next day—nor the day after that.
I went home and sat in my front room with its huge cathedral ceiling and wished for the skylight I mentioned to her.
My mind went back to that day.
“A skylight?” she asked.
“So I can sit here and watch clouds.”
“The park’s the best place for that.”
“Yes, but it seems the ownership of our bench is in dispute.”
“So, you don’t like to share,” she teased.
“Some things are best enjoyed in solitude,” I murmured. I was thinking aloud.
But she got very quiet after that.
Perhaps I offended her. But it didn’t make sense—we made love later.
Still, I haven’t seen her since.
I dropped by her studio the next day. A sign in the window stated, Shop Closed.
I returned the next day and then, each day for weeks after. The studio was always dark. The sign was always there.
One night I came home and found a brown paper package, tied with hemp, addressed to me.
I took it inside and opened it. It was a white crocheted Cashmilon yarn sculpture, with a note attached:
Dear Derek,
I made you a cumulus cloud by sewing together crocheted squares and diagraming it all using fractals to reproduce the cloudy topography. This is to be hung from your high ceiling until you get a skylight. When you look at the cloud, think of me.
I redoubled my efforts to contact her—all in vain. One day, I went by her studio and it was sold.
I contacted the realtor who told me the vendor went to live in Peru.
I still go to the bench in the park. It’s no longer my bench and it’s not our bench—it’s just a bench—a place where I watch clouds.
I wonder what it’s like watching clouds from the mountains of Peru. I wonder if Autumn walks with the Cloud Men—or sleeps with them.
I’m angry and I’m lonely. Some days I miss her—but mostly I hate her. Emptiness fills my heart.
I told her all. I opened my heart to her.
She left without explanation and tormented me with a cloud.
I want to close the door on her but can’t.
She left without explanation and could as easily return.
Today, the clouds above the trees are like an x-ray of an obscure anatomy. I sit on the bench alone.
It’s autumn and the leaves are falling—it’s always autumn in my heart.
When I leave to go home, a blackened leaf sticks to my shoe—a token of her—how her ghost clings to me still.