Aleppo Leaves
She said the leaves change here, too. I didn’t believe her. October was hot, and it didn’t rain at all. It looks the same now in November, though it rained once, a slight drizzle. Nothing anyone remarked, except me. Yesterday I walked the same way, past limestone building after building. I noticed a man slapping spackle, upward. The old ceiling must have been flaking, like leaves ready to fall. Then I saw them. They were red and yellow. Dusty like everything else. Men with red hoses wash cars and trees. They make puddles in the street. Sidewalks are drier, but you can’t walk on them either—too many entombed trees that grow wide, not tall, the leaves hanging low. Maybe that’s why I didn’t see the gold leaves until they’d been cut and left unraked in my path. I’d seen only green, olives and cypress, jasmine still in white bloom, what belonged to my way of thinking.
Swimming to Syria 18
