The Colors of Autumn

“That rug turned out nice,” one man said, but the tears in his eyes blurred his sight to the point of almost not even recognizing the patterns anymore. It had once been a fine rug. A focal point of the room, with its bright reds and yellows, celebrating the coming of a new season.
“Yeah, it did, I can’t remember the last time I just appreciated what I’ve done for this place,” admitted the other, to his friend.
They had never quite grown apart, two good ol’ platoon boys from back in the war. They could still remember how it never quite fit the movies that re-imagined it. There was a sense of solace out there on the fields. Solemn scars that John Wayne could never really capture on the big screen. Maybe it was in the knowledge that anytime, anywhere, fate’s hand could have you, and there was no which way about it.
“So what happens now?”
“Well I suspect I’ll move on, no point in fighting it, it’s just that time I suppose. I would hope that you would tell everyone my goodbyes for me.”
“I will, I will, what about her?”
“I don’t think she needs to know, she’d be better off not.”
“Well don’t you think she has a right to know?”
“A right to know that an old bastard has made the most of his life here and is ready to go home? No, she‘s happy where she is and I don‘t want to ruin that for her.”
“I think that would be a grand mistake on your part, friend.”
“It may be, but I’d like you to respect my wishes and leave it alone. After all we’ve been through together, the fields at Da Nang, up that vicious river. You could have died that day but I was there to see you through it! We were all there for each other. Every one of us, knew what we were up against, but we conquered, and we came home.”
“Alright, alright, you sour old fool, I won’t tell her anything.”
The man left his friend and on the way out a cool breeze came from the bedroom, swept through the foyer, and out the door. As he walked to the street, he watched the trees turn. First yellow, then red, then brown. And finally, at last, they were gone.