The Timing of Leaves
Through a window on which raindrops stream along, running into each, becoming one, a young boy sits kneeling on his car seat, watching his home shrink away from the backseat of a minivan. The wheels of the car glide along the wet, black concrete. Soon the rain begins to lighten and the boy, Elliot, turns around and rolls down the window. An autumn breeze flushes in, bringing petrichor, aging leaves, and a cold chill. He takes a glance back again, but the house has become too small to see except for the great oak tree that stands regally in the front yard, dangling thousands of brilliant orange leaves, making it appear as though on fire. He studies the leaves, pondering the strangeness of their timing, becoming most beautiful when they are about to whither and die.

His mother turns around and gives a small smile. Pretending not to notice his red eyes she asks, “Why don’t you take a nap, Eli? Grandpa’s funeral is early in the morning.”

The watch on his arm ticks along, singing to a steady tune, burying the past by stacking seconds, minutes, and hours. Elliot watches the clock’s arm for a moment more and then nods at his mother with a weak smile, who turns back around. Then he sees it. After rubbing his disbelieving eyes, he holds the watch up to his face and pears intently at the face of his wristwatch. A man is sitting on the arm of the clock, waving to Elliot with a hand no bigger than the point of a needle. Before he could contrive an explanation, he feels himself being pulled and falls, falls, falls until finally landing on his back on a brick street glistening with rainwater, as though sweating from the work of being a road.
Heavy grey smoke funnels from a factory off in the distance, but it smell reaches the boys nose almost immediately, a blend of oil, ashes, and faintly of something bittersweet that reminded him of the chocolate chips he would sneak from the kitchen cabinet. But before he could ponder this curiosity any longer a blinding light comes speeding towards him, illuminating his petrified face and blaring its horn. Elliot still on the ground and still terribly confused at the situation, scrambles to the side of the street while the car screeches to a halt. The window rolls down barely an inch.
“Your name Elliot?” whispers a voice from inside the car. Elliot, too dazed to speak, nods and slowly moves himself up onto the curb. “Get in, then. I haven’t got all day.” His voice is friendly, but hoarse with age. Without remembering what his mother had always said about strange cars and strange people, he stands up on shaking legs and makes his way into the passenger seat.
Plucking up some courage, Elliot asks, “What is this place?”
“The inside of your watch, of course. Where else?” The driver answers. He, a stout young man, couldn’t be older than twenty, with long, curly brown hair, smiles a little at the boy. “You know, you’re grandfather wasn’t quite as anxious as you, boy.”
“You know my grandfather?” Asks Elliot.
“Oh, yes. He and I were the good friends when we were young. Brothers, more like it.” He chuckles a bit at the memory. The car comes to a stop, while the breaks belch out a loud screech. They step out, and Elliot recognizes the factory from before: a massive steel building, several stories high and stretching down the whole block.
Walking inside, hundreds of people are at work, churning large cauldrons or pouring white-hot liquid, some at machines and others at desks, all working seemingly without end.
“What are they making?” The boy asks with fire reflecting in his wide eyes. Soot fills his lungs as he breathes in, leaving the taste of smoke in his mouth.
“Time.” Says the young man without a trace of humor, walking along and weaving through people with Elliot trying to keep up.
“And my grandfather has been here? In this place?” The man laughs a little at the boys question, puts his arms around the kid’s shoulder, and leads him into a small office room.
“Been here? He worked here! Lived here!” The boy knits his brow in confusion.
“Why did he leave?”
“Fell in love, that’s why.” The man rifles through some stacks of papers with odd equations on them. “Yes, your old man was a fool in love, that’s for sure. Sat staring at the watch’s window for hours, he did. None of that surprised anyone, it’s not so unheard to become attached to your watch’s owner. But then he did something no one expected: he left. Gone one day and never came back, only leaving a few farewell letters in his place.” The man picks up an old photograph and passes it to the boy.
“That’s your grandfather and I when we were just boys.”
“But you’re the same age in this. How can that be?”
“Ay, we are. When he left, he gave up the immortality a time maker possesses all his life, and so he aged. And now he’s gone.” Elliot felt stung at the bluntness of the words. His mind was a whirling with questions. “But he understood that well when he left, and he chose his life. I’ve caught a few glimpses of him over the years through the clock window from your grandmother’s watch, and I know he couldn’t have had it another way.” Elliot smiles at this recognition.
The car drives over a deep pothole and the car shakes, waking Elliot from his sleep. He doesn’t know how to react, confused at what is real. And then he looks down again at his grandmother’s watch, looking with intensity until finally his eyes rest upon a small speck of man, waving farewell to Elliot who was finally beginning to understand why the leaves aged so beautifully with time.