Letter to a Leaf


Dear Maple,

How are you?
Silly question.
You must be fine. Leaves which leave are always fine because little do they know of the ache.
I am writing this letter to tell you that I miss you and yes, I am not lying. But tomorrow when I will wake up, I will be over you, and it will appear as if I was lying.

You know every time a new maple came on my branches, I felt exhilarated.
I would make space on them, shift the previous maples a little, ask them to compose themselves for your homecoming.
But little did I know that you were here for five nights and six days like a tree tour you were on.
Little did I know that you came here, on my right branch, because the sunlight was sharper at that side and you were smitten by the darkness that engulfed you.

Dear Maple,
I miss you, but I am lying because you see, when the thunder came, and winds blew faster, you asked me if you can leave.
I didn’t answer because I wanted you to stay.
So you whispered ‘okay. I am not going anywhere.’
But when the sunlight you came for, started pricking your skin and bones,
when it was becoming too much,
you rusted and faded,
you didn’t ask me anything.
You just left me.

Dear Maple,
It ached.
It still aches for you took away the little arm of my branch.
You peeled off my skin without my permission.
You stepped on my heart before leaving.
But how would you know the pain? You are Maple.
Maples who leave don’t know the pain.

Dear Maple,
You were not the first one, but it aches like it did the first time.
Do you see, how so many maples come and so many maples went,
each taking a part of me with them?
My roots ache.
My trunk aches.
The wrinkles from my age gasp as they miss you.
And the place where you left from, is still empty.
Love is reluctant to grow.
The sun has refused to shine there.
And the little buds that belong to me have denied to usurp that space.
They ask me to keep it as a memory of you.

Dear Maple,
Now, I am keeping it as a memory of you because I love you.
But do you know, I fear that one day, each empty space on my skin will be a memory with no new buds.
I am afraid that the Sun will shift its place from my right branch.
And now, like I ache for you,
then, I will ache for the Universe.
But I will be long dead.

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