Start with a leash. Tightly clenched in your mother’s overbearing hands. Four children, including the furry one with a wagging tail, restrained. If he knew any better, he could have escaped.
It’s late autumn, so the leaves turn passionate oranges and deep reds. The wind tears those crimsons from the branches and sends them wildly to a place called “elsewhere.” Sometimes she lets us jump freely into the monstrosity we call a leaf pile. No leashes. Until the wind begins to bite and our cheeks turn a tender pink. Game over.
Leashes. Looks like a good intention. Like handholding. But she will never let go. Is she just being protective, they ask. No, you say. You come home smelling likes leaves, cheeks still fresh to the touch, and she scolds you for being late. Two minutes late.
Your younger brother is leashed to the house, but he doesn’t know any better. He is outside gazing at the stars, looking past the naked branches. But he can’t be restrained if he never tests the leash.
“Heel!” she says. Your dog halts immediately instead of fighting the restraint on his neck.
“Oh, the naivety of animals,” you mutter. People don’t respond quite so sweetly to leashes.
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you!” she snaps. But you intend for the bite to sting. A sting like the autumn wind, bitter but not cruel.
A year from now you’ll be “elsewhere.” You seem free. You look up at the stars and think of home. Your brother, sixteen now, is still bound to the house. A few leaves dwindle on the branches of the old tree in the front yard.
She beckons to him, “Come! It’s bedtime!” He rolls his eyes, gives the leaves a reproachful look. He focuses his telescope on the star Betelgeuse, which is believed to already be long gone. Six-hundred and forty-two light years long gone.