The Maple Tree, Jane McGann

The Maple Tree

Jane McGann

The world used to be a grassy lawn and the height of a maple, which had everything but the answer to the greatest mystery of my life: Why does the tree grow leaves of fre once a year? I knew only one place to look for it. “Mom, why does our tree change color every fall?” In words that were lost on me then, you said less sunlight meant less food, that less food meant less green. I sucked on each syllable like a sweet, savoring the satisfaction of an answer.

But now those words have lost their taste, and they sour instead of sooth because I’d rather the leaves be ablaze than a stain of the onslaught of seasons. The trees won’t stop changing, marking the close of yet another year. Now when I see an inkling of fame on those frst hollow days of fall, I’m reminded that I’m changing too, and that every fall takes me further from you. I know why the trees change now. But Mom, do they have to?