Mrs. Sycamore

It is enough to be visited by a leaf.

In my case, a grand elder with gracious lines and an 18-inch wingspan. I invited her into my home and she stayed for the holidays. I pulled items from the basement to carry on traditions passed down from my parents, bringing them to life for a moment, once again. She sat at the piano where Dad loved to play and the chair where he read his books. She hung around as I sipped coffee from Mom’s china, which I do each morning since they’ve both been gone.

As our city caught on fire, many friends lost their homes and all the possessions that defined their lives. The skies turned pink and then an angry gold, and finally blue again. In the course of a single morning, items that represented a lifetime of work, that were touchstones to a vibrant past, vanished.

Mrs. Sycamore got tossed into the trash while I was away. It’s possible that no one else would find her special. But she was to me. She unlocked a door in my mind, she comforted me, and kept me company. Memory, after all, is a fickle sorceress.