Persimmon

By Charlotte Zheng, The Bishop's School, '29

Photography by Charlotte Zheng, The Bishop's School, '29

It’s only 5 p.m.—yet, a charcoal grey is already in full bloom across the sky. In the distance, the last of the persimmon orange disappears beyond the horizon. The air is dense and frosty. There’s a small sheen of white-light attempting to break through the thick clouds, but the moon is no match for ominous thunderclouds threatening to blizzard. The town is silent, still like the naked trees in the whistling winds. The streets are empty. Store signs flicker before dying completely. Nowadays, everything seems to be dying—trees, light, and all of existence. 

It’s 6 p.m. now—still no sign of life. Half of the lot is lit up by streetlights. The other half stopped working in mid November.

It’s 7 p.m. now—a squirrel cowers at the opening of a store, the only one in the plaza with a sign still lit. Hendrickson’s Dry Cleaning. The sign glows orange—persimmon. The squirrel squeaks softly but scratches urgently, attempting to squeeze through the bottom of the doorframe, in search of warmth, a sign of hope, life, for survival. But as astounding an effort the squirrel makes, it is no match for the brisk night. 

It’s 8 p.m. now—the nocturnal sides of life return. But even these creatures that strive in the night—in the aloofness, the darkness, and the discreetness—are struggling to stay afloat. An owl hoots alarmingly. There’s a tangle of arms and legs and wings. The ruckus lasts for barely a minute. Silence reigns once more. Feathers abandoned in the wake.

It’s 9 p.m.—we’re more than halfway there. There's a soft whistle in the distance. Something… or perhaps… someone? No, it was only the wind.

It’s 10 p.m.—the double digits. The wind is howling like never before. A window pane shatters. The roof of Hendrickson’s Dry Cleaning is lifting, the tiles banging against the walls, barely hanging on. A plastic bag materializes and almost controllably glides down to the pavement—undisturbed by the restless wind. At some point, glass breaks for the last time. A tile detaches from the roof and falls aside the plastic bag. It spins, flailing, and lands with a thud. 

It’s finally 11 p.m.—the finish line is within reach. In the streets, rows of bare trees line the in-between of forwards and backwards moving vehicles. Except at this hour, the streets aren’t meant for automobiles. The crunching of gravel starts slow, indistinct, like it’s not really there. Suddenly, a car comes blaring by, headlights flashing persimmon. The lifeless trees are awakened by the abrupt disturbance. A branch detaches itself and goes flying against the window pane of the driver's side. It fragments the glass. Shattering. The car doesn't halt; it doesn't let the stillness prevail. Instead, it soars ahead at 45 mph over the speed limit, horns blaring and orangey light tainting the grey fog. It’s gone so fast that it’s almost like it never transpired. A mere figment of imagination. The only indicator is the shards of glass littered among the otherwise clear road, glistening under the moonlight.

Midnight—12 a.m., or rather, 0 a.m. The rebirth of a new day. But for some, the night is only beginning—or at least that’s the way it used to be. Music, flashing lights, the stench of alcohol and cigars filling the air. Things change—Things always change, but no one expected everything to change. 

12:12 a.m. (0:12 a.m.)—A door swings open, exposing Hedrickson’s Dry Cleaning to the frost of the night. A man strides out. He’s smoking, or perhaps he’s not. That’s the illusion of the frigid air. The jeans he’s wearing are too insubstantial to keep him warm, tightly hugging his knees down to his ankles. A thin blue and orange flannel is the only thing between his skin and the negative degree atmosphere. Even then, he doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. The squirrel is still at the foot of the door, no longer shuddering. No longer moving at all. It’s dead. The man moves past it—untroubled. He climbs into a rusty mahogany truck and powers it on. Humming softly, the wheels crunch the gravel as the truck backs into the road. He stops shortly to get gas from the station across the lot before driving off under the yellow hue of the streetlights. The truck disappears into the evening mist, taillights flashing dimmer and dimmer. The music of the engine is whisked away by the rousing winds, and soon, sound dwindles. 

Stillness.

Silence.

Hendrickson’s Dry Cleaning flickers. The power goes out, the last of the persimmon light dissipates into thin air. More streetlights dim. 

Everything perished, but one thing has just begun stirring…

Winter encroaches.