The Last Leaves On The Tree
by P.A. Raymond
I just woke up and sat on the couch of the living room. There’s this small wish of going out. Hanging out with old friends or family, Christmas is coming closer and the magic seems to have migrated as well. I remember how mom invited me to New Year’s Eve in 2018 and I regret so much I didn’t go.
She’s in Spain now with her husband and my sister. They left to have a better life. She needed a place where the water didn’t smell bad, and where she could find medical attention in case she was bitten by an insect and her allergies risked her life.
I miss her, but perhaps it was the best for her. In fact, the best for me as well. We’ve been cooking on the electric stove she left me for the last month because the domestic gas trucks aren’t coming to Santa Rita.
I was getting tired of that orange water the last three months. I feel relieved, not happy. Why should I feel happy about them fixing the pump three months later?
These kinds of things help me understand why everyone’s leaving. I can trace my old friends all over the world; Ruben in Peru, Gabriela in Colombia, Diana in North America, Luis in Argentina and mom in Spain. People I miss and remember every time I see lonely streets and schools without wonderful pedagogic professionals such as them. They are gone now. They all look live leaves falling from this corrupted tree, along with many more leaves whose names I don’t know. But I can assure I share their pain.
And once again I might not feel happy, just relieved. Because who can feel happy leaving home as it falls apart behind our fleeing steps? Perhaps I’ll eventually accept it. But for now, my wife and I feel alone, like the last leaves on a falling dead tree.
PEDRO PÉREZ is a Venezuelan writer who likes writing fiction and nonfiction as well as articles. He writes in English and Spanish and he hopes to eventually bring the trend of Fantasy books to his country, Venezuela.