tarnishing

The last leaf of autumn clings, a trembling scarlet against November’s gray. Tomorrow, the
wind will take it too—this final punctuation mark in the year’s slow exhalation. Petals forget
their names first. The rose abandons its red, the violet its purple, until both become the same
translucent brown. Even the sky, that relentless optimist, surrenders its blue each evening
without protest.

In the gallery, the old master’s pigments crack. Vermillion flakes like dried blood. Ultramarine
fades to ghostly whispers. Centuries of light have been stealing from these canvases, one photon at a time. The child’s balloon escapes upward—a bright red o against the clouds. Smaller. Smaller. Then gone, as if the sky swallowed it whole.

We pretend otherwise. Polish silver to fight tarnish. Dye graying hair. Press flowers between
pages like captured ghosts. But the book itself will be yellow. The ink will forget what it meant
to say.

At dusk, the stained glass window glows richest—sapphire, ruby, emerald—just before the
light leaves completely. The colors don’t fight their going. They simply deepen, then vanish, as
all beautiful things must.

Night comes. The stars appear fixed, but we know better. Even their light is only an echo,
arriving long after the fire has gone out.

And yet—

That scarlet leaf, in its final moment, burns brighter than any flame.