The Ritual.

This is the ritual of the hand becoming the last leaf on a tree in the fall. Shaken violently by the wind, the leaf cannot control it's tremors. The leaf is held to this world with one thin, decaying stem. This ritual is one that you yourself have become accustomed to. You expect it, like mosquitos in the summer. But you will never forget that first time. The initial ritual, the initial burying rights. Your math teacher with hair like shredded cocoanut, and tiny impish feet notifys you that your have been summoned to the office, collect your things, you are going home for the day. You never really got to go home after that. This summons was a surprise dreaded like jury duty, but no letter in the mail warning you. You stand up from your desk, and your best friend at the time, the one with the brown hair, asks what is going on. You grandma had been in the hospital recently, that's what comes to mind. Your face drops, “I don't know, but it's bad.” Your feet drag as you watch the weaved burgundy and gray carpet pass below you. At your locker you turn the dial without seeing the numbers. Metallic clangs reach through the empty hallway. Walking towards the office, there is no sign of what is to come, just the uncomfortable rotten milk smell you have grown used to over the years. Nothing fazes you. What was the weather like that day? Cool, late October hair; no rain or snow yet, not for a few days. You reach the office like a deer that runs off a cliff out of stupidity. You never should have went that far. The principle takes you into her office, and the fluorescent lights show down on your grandparents, there eyes are pools of saltwater. “Why are my grandparents here?” you wonder dreamily. A simple thought to distract you from the answer you already know. Your brother is here to, so young, so naive. The atmosphere is that of a practical joke failed to make anyone laugh. Slowly, in no time at all, the syllables from your grandpa's mouth register. “There was a fire at your house today...” You know then, as sure as you know your birthday or the color of your hair. Suddenly you have no legs, no feeling, no color, no control. You have nothing. This is the ritual of the hand becoming a leaf. The leaf cannot combat against nature, it shakes without being aware it is shaking. It is alone on the tree, and soon the leaf will not be able to hold on anymore, and the wind will blow it away.