Every year, the giant oak tree in Mr. Turnblatt’s yard changed with the seasons; bare bones in the snows of winter, growing green buds in the rains of spring, the full-grown fronds blowing in the summer breeze, and the violent reds in the autumn cooling.
The last was Mr. Turnblatt’s favorite. He loved the way the orange of the setting sun lit the tree from behind, turning it into a gigantic torch. Somehow he felt warmed by this image and anxiously awaited each autumn.
One November, he noticed the tree hadn’t started to change. Not one leaf had even a hint of a blush on its veiny facade. He checked the temperature; it was just as it should be: a chilly forty-eight degrees.
Alarmed, he attempted to call his niece who lived down the road. The babysitter answered. When asked to speak to Mrs. Overbright, she replied, “I’m sorry sir. She had to step out to attend to some affairs regarding her late Uncle Turnblatt. He died last autumn before the leaves changed. His estate has yet to be settled.”