Feuillemort

Feuillemort (n.) of the color of dead or dying leaves.

“I, too, am getting dry and brittle,” said the matron as she gazed at the dead leaf.

Anya had seen two hundred and thirty-nine winters and was wondering how many more were in store for her.

“I do like spring with its rebirth of color, but winter has its place, too. We need it to remind us that life is not as long as we would like,” muttered Anya.

Today was tough. Gojeck had passed ten years prior in a mining accident along with seven other members of the woods.

“I’ll be making your favorite pie today. I hope you’ll take the time to enjoy a bit,” remarked the matron with a wry smile.

This morning, Anya lay in bed until midmorning, not having the energy to start her duties. T’was Malak’s fiddling that coaxed her out of bed.

“How is the spring chick doing today?” teased her friend as she opened the door.

Malak had noticed a change in her step and wanted to stop over for tea and a chat.

“The mind is willing, but the body protests, old friend,” replied Anya.

The two discussed the autumn harvest and the coming winter in Folksburywoods.

“I’ll take a walk to the ridge today, care to join me?” asked the matron.

“Afraid I can’t, need to put up the last of the hay before the snows come,” replied Malak.

The friends parted with smiles. Anya began her hike to the ridge. She hoped to get a glimpse of the woods in full color.

When she reached the brook, a fern leaf blew across her feet. She picked it up and noticed how hollow it felt.

“Time and tide wait for no man,” said Anya. “You, my friend, have places to go.” She tossed the leaf high into the air.

Reaching the ridge, the woman gazed over the entire forest. The leaves glowed a rainbow of colors in the afternoon sun.

“I’ll miss colors when I journey to the sunless lands. I’ll hold their memory for as long as I can,” the matron said.

Anya turned and retraced her steps to her home, where pie baking and laundry folding awaited her.

“No man knows the hour or the day,” mumbled Anya. “Best to enjoy the time while it lasts.” She slipped the pie into the oven.

“Now about that laundry,” said Anya. She shuffled over to the fire. A hot cup of dewberry tea and a biscuit awaited her there.

For the moment, she was the daughter of Laymer, wife of Gojeck, and mother of Awnie. That was good enough. Let the future take care of itself, she had folding to do.

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