Twilight Leaves

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. The elders long forgot what songs meant, and the words were lost. The old ways that should not have been buried so swiftly now lie in mist.

Searching for what happened before... a crime... treachery. Information is denied for any lineage that goes beyond one thousand years. And there's no memory of what happened.

Most of us have been scouring long years into our ancestors' life as it was meant to be. Not torn out of the universe. Here we lie forgotten, abandoned on this planet where the very air seeks to end us... not life, we haven't breathed in decades.

This poison in the air, a gas; it can't be seen. It stays undetectable despite all our sensors. And yet, each time we turn 100, we are taken. No one falls ill; there's no gray hair or difficulty moving. We simply expire and turn to ash.

Are we here by choice, or were we forced to come?

Some have their parents with them still... I never knew my family. I've spent my life in hiding, taking turns. I stay in one city until I get to 99, and then I move on, ever chasing what makes me linger.

Unlike the others, I haven't died... not once in these long years.

It feels like just one day since the first day here, touching this planet, walking. Looking at flowers, running. How we arrived, no one could tell.

I've been a university teacher for 300 years, and none of my efforts added any information. Disguised as a dedicated scholar, I looked for clues, answers... anything that could tell me who I am... or why I hold on to this existence.

My friends have come and gone; I lost so many... I can't keep track. Each time I end a life, I never look back to who knew me in that city. I go on to the next... a new beginning or the end.

There is power in not knowing.

The longest-living are feared and obeyed... those living close to 98 can ask for any service, receive any favor. I've never admitted my age or let anyone guess. That would be the end of my research.

Life, as it is, keeps moving. I haven't changed in all these years. Dark hair, green eyes. I've searched for traces of gray or a wrinkle... nothing shows my age.

The mirror on my wall only seems to record each flicker, each smile. But what is left behind it? My spirit feels thin at times, like a bubble ready to burst at the slightest provocation.

The way of the leaf keeps me safe.

I grow my trees and talk to branches. Their leaves nourish me; I haven't had food or any drink in centuries. What I receive from leaves keeps me safe from prying eyes. No questions, no doubts. Just a professor growing his orchard.

Inside each leaf, before it dies, a whisper is born. It happens at dawn when souls can run, and all those who come back can be together at daybreak.

Most people don't see them walking on the grass or climbing to peek in each balcony. They're hungry for what could have been; they don't know there's no link... to this world and the next. Not even our spirits can move on. Here we stay, trapped.

I tried to step once into another universe.

I made a bridge connecting dream water with ether essence. I brewed it late in the night until I could hear words and chanting coming from the other side.

A portal opened, and I peered inside. People dancing and celebrating. The window was not only for me, though.

They saw and gasped. Then screams started, running, weapons. Armor and shooting.... all toward my window... and I hadn't moved, I didn't threaten them at all.

Another night, I tried again. This time, the window showed me a different place, quiet and peaceful.

Pets were resting, and three children were playing in an attic. It didn't take long for them to notice me. They screamed, woke up the cats, and it was all a frenzy in a few seconds.

I don't look like them, but I'm not a ghost.

Sometimes, I'm not sure. Maybe this long life has turned me into something else. I don't remember breathing or what food tastes like.

I glide more than I walk. I reach 100 miles in play, yet I act slow to meet eyes and avoid blame.

Lingering here... does that mean I had something to do with the beginning? Disaster landed us on this planet... nothing else could have achieved it. And yet, I don't feel sorry or guilty.

Could it be the leaves have a secret to tell they haven't yet surrendered?

This full moon, I will take thoughts out... in a tree spell and talk to them. I need to know. Was I known to the maker.... am I the one?

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© 2022 Amy Christie