The leaves that pepper my walk to uni are fire-coloured, natural confetti. They are small, and round, and red and yellow and orange. They are slippery when wet, and rain water makes them brighter, luminous against the grey concrete - little leaves, damp and vestigial.
I don’t believe there is an afterlife, but the things we say, what we do, the relationships we keep with others - those live on after we’re gone. In that sense, there is life after death.
Someone said that to me once, unprompted. Or something like it.
I look at the leaves, take a picture or two, and note their brown edges. Dead and decomposing already. But I don’t feel sorry for them: little leaves like life’s sediment, a reminder of autumnal bliss, a collection of sun-stained memories. They will be gone in no time, now - as beautiful on the ground as on dying tree branches.
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