By Leslie D. Rose


I’ve never seen anyone take their last breath
yet my chest knows 
the rise and imminent fall 
of breathing that’s labored beyond its capacity

My mother
diaphragm captured by asthma’s embrace
took her final spin around the respiratory cycle 
on September 26, 2001
in a half-a-house in my native southern New Jersey

The beginning of autumn
always a reminder of leaves snatched at my roots
No wonder my daddy chose October 
for his earthly exit
taking his last breath alongside a tree 
surrounded by Louisiana nature
just five days after I moved to Maryland

Louisiana's leaves 

don’t change colors like Maryland's

Here

autumn leaves remind me 

of the beauty of loss


The way transition 

Can make you change colors 

Dropping 
into the darkness of earlier sunsets
Fall 
Become anew
In just one season 

By the time 
the last leaf taps the ground
an audible crunch of nature
both paper and wood like 
I will still consider myself autumn’s orphan









 

Leslie D. Rose is a Jersey-born, HBCU-educated creative writer, communications strategist, and culture and advocacy journalist. She explores personal narratives through poetry and creative non-fiction via healing imagery and self-reflection. Her journalism focuses on equity and advocacy, criminal justice, women's health, music, celebrities, family, and mental health. Leslie is a lipstick aficionado, live music enthusiast, wife, cat mother, and rich (in spirit) auntie. You can learn more about Leslie by visiting LeslieDRose.com.