I stare at the sidewalk—the cracks filled with weeds—and I remember how the fresh concrete stiffened in August, after a single leaf fell one hot night. They tore the leaf out of the ground. Piece by piece, it flaked away. I see where the leaf used to be, but it's only a faint outline.
Now, the concrete is worn, and a thousand footsteps have covered it. The weeds and the cracks hide it away under their looming shadows.
The leaf was only the beginning.
