Fistful of Sand

Leaves descending from the trees, spinning and twirling like dancers lost in song, landing gracefully in the pond. Like little sailboats caressing the surface, no cargo, no passengers, and no destination; led only by the whims of the wind and sheer luck.

I spent every day at the pond that autumn, watching the leaves fall. I liked my little leaf-boats. I chose them, collected them, raced them across the water, guiding them with my own breath. Soon I had so many boats that the pond was getting crowded. The leaves covered the pond in fiery shades of descending autumn. Maybe I should put my boats out to sea. Even more room and more wind to be free. I set out for the docks with my fleet of leaves to take the world by storm.

At the docks, I saw other boats. Big boats, powerful and efficient. Adorned with names that hung on everyone's lips, masts as thick as trees, harnessing the power of many winds to sail vast oceans, carrying much cargo and many people.

I stood there in awe, still clutching my armload of leaves. These simple leaves would surely be crushed and drown under the bows of such overpowering vessels. My boats used to make me happy; these leaves used to be all I wanted and all I could think about, consuming my mind and my time. Now my once pleasant memories of the pond seemed shallow and stagnant, a complete waste of time. The clanging of ships' horns rang in my ears, the deep murmurs of the horn reverberated in my chest, shaking the foundations of my soul and raising goosebumps on my skin.

My leaves continued to tumble to the ground as they always have, this time in tiny bits and pieces of greens and reds and yellows, slipping through my clenched fists like so much sand.