Mark watches the leaves fall in the park. They remind him of his dad, who he hasn’t seen in years. Although his heart hurts when he thinks of how they used to share breakfast, dinners, stories, trips, there’s some semblance of that in the leaves still. Every fall, he comes and sits on the bench and waits for leaves to part from the stem and branch and float on the wind to wherever they might go. He doesn’t get up to follow them, but he follows them with his eyes, until they land and crunch under the foot of a dog or a toddler or a runner. Then he gets up, walks home, and eats dinner, alone, thinking of his father and where he might be.