Sixteen
Every October, Melissa’s father used to tell her the story of Cinderella. It was an obvious connection: ripe pumpkins in the fields were his mnemonic. The way Charlie Makepeace told it, Cinderella was a fable about the change of seasons. In the fall, nature’s fairy godmother transformed plain green trees, and magically they wore a fabulous, ornate ball gown of orange, yellow and red, accessorized with brilliant blue skies and frost slippers. It lasted only a few short moments, then with the bong, bong, bong of an unseen tower bell at midnight, the gorgeous leaf-gown was gone, leaving shredded brown rags in its place. The trees were still beautiful, but it was a ragged beauty, tattered scraps of fleeting glory withering in clumps of dead grass. Locked in a chilly garret, the trees
