WITH ARMS spread open, I allowed gravity to pull me down to earth as it had the leaves that had flown away from their homes. Fall, a foreign season that reminded me of home, the verb for the motion that brought me to where I was.
I lay atop my fellow wilted ones, their blades blunted and tender, unable to do any more than trigger an itch along the back of my neck that could too easily be numbed out. In silence, I watched as those left still rooted in their homes cry as they watched more of their fellows dance away to the silent melody the wind hummed. Little do they know that gravity is but destiny, and that the ground is closer to home than the sky would ever be. F MARIA ANTOINETTE A. MALICSE