A Bike, A Book and a Thought.

He watched the last leaf of autumn, fall into the field on the other side of the the broken wooden fence that bordered the lane; his book already lay into the ditch where it too had dropped when he stopped pedalling to catch his breath. 

He felt tired and suddenly old, but he was hopeful that there would still be many books to put into his pockets; he was uncertain that he would see any more leaves falling this winter.

Even if a few still remained on the trees. 

Already he was distracted by the celandines that had sprung in the verges, the snowdrops scattered like melting snow on the forest floor, and the riot of catkins littering the hedgerows. 

Spring.

Unofficially declared, happily welcomed.

This was the first time since the turning of the year that he had cycled to the town; going was easy - downhill, a doddle. The way back, a challenge for even a younger pair of legs. 

He looked at the book.

He carried it in the saddle bag to read at moments like this, struggling on a slope, needing a breather.

Now he had to dismount and scrabble into the ditch to retrieve it where it lay on a deep bed of other fallen leaves, its cover the brightest colour in the autumnal decay.

A face stared back at him.

An artist’s impression of the author, perhaps a self-portrait.

Scowling? Mocking? Smiling, below the title.

The Old Man and The Sea.

Ironic in a way. 

The old man at sea.

That could be him.

His epitaph.

Memories flooded back on the tides lapping around him: a former girlfriend saying the book had reminded her of him, years ago: a song from a band listened to in youth – confusion, will be my epitaph: his sister surprised when he had repeated those lyrics to her only a year or too ago.

“How do you remember so much detail?” She had been surprised.

“Don’t you?”

“I have trouble remembering why I have walked into the room.”

“Everyone does, it’s normal. Surely remembering your formative years are normal too?”

“It depends how busy you were at the time, I guess.” She concluded. 

He dragged the bike into the ditch and collected Hemingway’s work.

“I need this for the hill.” He muttered to himself.

“I haven’t even reached the hill yet. This is only the slope.” He muttered back.

He rode away, leaving the last leaf of autumn, alone and forgotten.

He stopped ten more times climbing the hill.

He reached page twenty-one before finally arriving at the house.

He ate toast, some cheese, a citrus fruit and then showered and napped.

Later, he sat at the kitchen table and started writing a letter to his sister.

He decided to count through the words on page twenty-one until he found the word corresponding to his age, and wrote out the sentence containing it to send her.

They walked down the road to the old man’s shack and all along the road, in the dark, barefoot men were moving, carrying the masts of their boats.