The golden leaves of A's favorit tree are falling.
There is this huge tree in the front yard; I am not sure how old it is, but it surely has been here before many of the houses in the neighborhood. A could watch it every morning from the window of his first room. He once told me lovingly that it was his favorit tree in the whole world. I told him it was mine too. I suppose it was. I am not sure if I called any tree my favorit in the past.
Its leaves have turned golden now. They easily fall these days with any breeze. Some fall slowly, taking turns and swirl before their final descent. Some turn around themselves. Some drop straight down. But one thing is similar in every one of them: today, it is sad to watch them fall.