Falling leaves

Les feuilles tombent. Tombent sur ces tombes.

Have you ever seen a person die?... I remember, once. I was on my way home, after school. I had to follow the same dull road for about thirty minutes. Not much to see. A few trees leaving town, then a field, and then our little house at the extremity.

I remember the scene. It was a four-way intersection, stop signs for each direction. That little boy was running with his bag on his back. He had a blue jean jacket, white and red sneaker shoes, a red cap on his head.

The car didn't stop.

For a moment, everything seemed to stop.

Then... He flew to the middle of the street. The leaves on the ground were projected upward, yellow, red, bloody. There was blood everywhere. Running on his face and unto the street, scarlet rivulets. I am ashamed to admit, there was a strange beauty in it. It was like a crimson star, starting from a corpse. The fallen leaves completed the picture with their bright colours, contrasting with the deeper red shade.

I don't think the little boy was dead. Weirdly enough, his face was towards me. I could see his eyes, big and unblinking. He was silent, and seemed almost serene, fully aware of his situation. But maybe he was already gone.

All around, though, people came back to life. It was like a still picture suddenly turning into a movie. That, or an exposition of possessed wax statues. A woman accross the street screamed. It was an ear-piercing, despairing and scary shriek. It still rings in my head when I think about it. The man driving the car, a brownish Peugeot 405 I think, came rushing out of it. But he didn't dare approach the boy.

In fact, no one did. People came, looked frantically for a public phone, yelling, shouting, crying. They all looked at the boy, but no one tried to touch him, no one tried to help, no one tried to see if he was still alive.

Soon enough of course, my view of him got blocked. I was still standing in the same place, and sometimes his eyes were visible through the blur of legs. But I didn't want to watch anymore. I didn't want to wait for the police or the ambulance, didn't want to get caught in so much motion. Commotion.

I followed the road, walking a stiff walk, kicking dry leaves with my feet. And they were projected upward, yellow, red. I watched them rise, fly and fall. I listened to their rustle, and I liked it. I've always loved kicking leaves, watching them and listening.

I left town, and kept walking, as usual. I took a look at the sunflowers field to my left. Most of them were already withering, their head looking down as if they were mourning. But one was strong, happy, alive. He stood out in the crowd, like a joyful sun. And I don't know why, but I went into the field, and got to him. I cut him at mid-length with my school scissors, half tearing it down. He still seemed smiling in my hands.

I could see our little house on the side of the street. An old, rustic and cheap house, white walls and green roof. I liked it nonetheless. When I pushed the door, my mother came to me, a worried look on her face. I didn't tell her why I was late, and she scolded me for stealing someone's sunflower. I didn't care much, that time.

I left the sunflower on the dinner table, and went up to my room. And I thought about the little boy. He was quite young. Too young to die. His life resembled autumn's dry leaves. They rise into the air, dance with the wind, and fall. Or maybe he was like that sunflower, happy and joyful, who got his life taken from him. I don't know.

...

I do know. His name was Laurent. We lived in opposite directions from school. He had to cross the street. I can still see him, waving at me from the school's gates. And he was my best friend.

This was fourteen years ago. Each year, when autumn starts, I think of it.

Tu n'es plus au monde, mais les feuilles doivent toujours tomber sur ta tombe...