Reading Emily Bronte

Michelle Templeton

Michelle Templeton

Michelle Templeton is a writer and visual artist in Seattle, WA. She holds an MFA in Fiction from Antioch University, L.A. and her stories have appeared in a variety of journals. She teaches English at Cascadia College, and is working on a novel.

As I walked and watched leaves fall from the maple trees I played "he loves me/he loves me not" in my head. Only I changed the words. One leaf fell and I thought, "Keep it." The next leaf was "Get rid of it."
 
Leaves fell.
 
Keep it/Get rid of it.
 
I was walking down Spruce Street in Downtown Philly where the trees are skinny and tall-ish; not exactly a forest, but there were golden leaves all over the sidewalk. If I stopped walking and watched them fall it might be a long time till I knew whether I was keeping my baby.
 
It was an "ish" kind of day; not cold or warm, not wet or sunny. The streets weren't especially loud or quiet. I had on my Veronica Beard coat with the faux fur collar, but I wore it open, the dark green wool flapping in the corner of my vision as I walked. I heard my boot heels strike the pavement with each step. Some guys gathered in front of a shoe-repair shop cat-called me.
 
"Hey, Baby!" "Where you going in such a hurry?"
 
I gave them the finger.
 
I crossed the street in front of a taxi. This feeling came over me that I was late; too late, and my heart started racing. I was a few minutes late, no doubt, but definitely not too late. He'd be there waiting for me at the coffee shop, book open on the table, frothy tea latte half-drunk.
 
I kicked my way through a pile of leaves on the sidewalk like we did when we were kids.
 
Keep it/Get rid of it
 
Keep it/Get rid of it
 
A line of Emily Bronte came to me.
 
"Every leaf speaks bliss to me"
 
Not much help.
 
I was about two-thirds finished with my English dissertation and well-used to bits of Victorian literature floating through my mind. Not usually Emily though. I considered myself more of a Charlotte kind-of girl, though I wasn't writing my paper on any of the Brontes. I kept them for pleasure reading.
 
Every leaf speaks bliss to me 
 
What was the rest of that verse? I thought.
 
Keep it/Get rid of it
 
Two leaves fell from a tree at the same moment. Cancelling each other out. 
 
I slowed my pace. Pretty sure Ethan would still have about half a chai latte left. No need to hurry. Anyway, I had nothing to say, right? No decision made. He would want to say what he thought would be best. I guess I owed it to him to listen. Would his words matter?
 
The sky was darkening slightly and the air around me turned a dusky blue. The gold of the leaves deepened, turning coppery. There was a stir of wind, the remaining leaves seemed to cling fiercely to their branches. I guess they were done telling me what to do.
 
Down the block, I saw the empty outside tables and fold-up red umbrellas of the café, it's neon sign making an aura of the window. I stopped walking some distance away.
 
Every leaf speaks bliss to me 
 
Feeling cold, I buttoned up my coat. I thought about Emily Bronte. Those lines of poetry hung at the edge of my memory, like the strand of a cobweb from a lamp.  I couldn't get the words to materialize. Across the street, I could see two men through their window sitting at a dining room table holding wine glasses, deep in conversation. I wondered what they were talking about.
 
I took a few more steps. Then I saw Ethan through the café bay window, sitting at a two-top, book open, staring into his mug. It must be empty, I thought. The latte gone, and Ethan wondering why I hadn't shown.
 
I pulled up the collar of my coat, turned around, and walked the other way.

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