Lucky Leaves

Strains of Aeolian harp permeate the early morning air like a promissory prelude to a prayer.

A leaf twirls out of the talcum-dusted baby-blue sky of a newborn day. It spirals slowly earthward in pirouette descent of a golden shaft of sunlight, as if to trace some unseen heavens’ helix effortlessly in its grace.

A brownskin boy, small for ten, holds his hand out slowly, steady, not wondering, but watching as the leaf drops onto his outstretched open palm. …

* * * * * * * *

The past two years have been crazy since mum ran away screaming, naked, down the street. Not really anything to do with me though; I’m only adopted, like she said. My name’s Lafayette and I’m ten.

Fagin never shot at her, only pointed the gun; he was angry though. She ran with feet flapping out to the sides at every step, I thought she looked funny, but I didn’t laugh. She wouldn’t be coming back.