Misty didn’t care for the changing colors. She was reminded too much of her father’s last days in the hospital, staring out his window at those trees, hanging on even after her mother had sat down at his bedside and told him through a veil of tears that he could let go as soon as he was ready.
Her father had smiled, kissed her on the forehead, and drawn her close against his frail, skeletal body.
I’ll go when they change, Mary, he told her, giving her body the best squeeze his atrophied arms could manage. I wanna see the colors one last time.
He hadn’t made it that long.
Misty had been one of those kids who believed in magic; who saw so much of the world as charmed; who believed that evil could always be overthrown by good and that any curse could be shattered by true love’s kiss.
But she stopped believing in it – any of it – when her father died while the leaves were still green.I hope you enjoyed this week's eight. If you're in America, I wish you a very happy Thanksgiving! If you're in Canada, happy belated! And if you're elsewhere, I hope you've had a great weekend so far and that it only gets better from here.