From Long Island Express Highway, Kailas turned north to enter Spring Filed Boulevard.  His visit to his home, he wasn’t sure to call it home, would have impacted who were close to him, had the events happened recently taken another turn.  The Boulevard was chock-a-block with traffic; his laziness didn’t allow him to check the traffic level before entering the Boulevard.  The road ahead stretched in two lines.  A tall advertising vehicle in front prevented him seeing anything beyond its flat back. He switched on his car radio and tuned on to the SyriusXM channel.  The announcer went on and on about all routes busy, he got angry and turned off the channel.

Twenty-three minutes than usual he took to reach the turning from Spring Field Boulevard to 53rd Avenue.  There he turned south and joined street no. 216.
Street 216 too was busy, but traffic wasn’t stagnant, moving.  Parking spaces on both sides were taken up by all kinds of vehicles, some flashing names of media houses and some advertising food stalls and accommodation.  Men and women stepped out of the parked cars, crossed the street in a hurry, approached the trees lined on both sides of the road.  Visitors turned their eyes and cameras to the tree crowns. They were foliage peepers. The festival of colour fall in the autumn was already beginning.
An air of anticipation hung over the crisp air column bouncing over the traffic, the balconies of the many-storied buildings and the long lines of trees. The trees looked like anxious brides waiting to try on their colourful bridal dresses in front of the dress watchers.  Visitors snapped the anxiety enthusiastically in cameras; they focused on the trees at different angles, bending down on knees and stepping backwards.

School children in uniforms moved in groups, led by teachers, they scribbling hurriedly on notebooks, on clipboards.

Kailas thought of his camera resting his car’s dashboard but didn’t take out to click on the colours.   Today he wasn’t a scenic traveller enchanted by the colour changes of the foliage.  But he knew it very well. That the bristle-tipped, broad-lobed foliage of the Northern Red Oaks would turn red and yellow very soon.  The three-lobed foliage of the spreading Red Maple would turn a pallet of greenish yellow and vibrant scarlet, and the short trunked American Sycamore would become a sensation of yellow and orange.  He had taken an interest in all of them once.

Beyond the trees, the street transformed into a narrow single lane.  Big houses lined both sides, two and three storied, colonial, brick-walled, single dwelling, demarcated by green lawns, edged with small plants, bright with blooms and with foliage, yellowing and reddening from green.

As he moved further down, the visitors and the vehicles lessened in numbers and children, small and big, from his neighbourhood, bobbed beside the elders along the walkways in different directions.  Elders were adults or parents, biological or not, he assumed.  The children were looking around with widened eyes.   A boy around eight was showing his amusement by laughing, showing all his front teeth.  He was looking at his mother (assumed), and the lady complimented his laugh with a smile concealed within her lips which reminded Kilas of a fancy package of cheap sweets.  The boy’s eyes were seen widening.  He raised his hands and waved at the kid.

Day 6 of the Write Tribe Festival

While we talk about writing, I thought of posting a Page From My Writing, an example of how I turned my theory into practice. How have you made your theory into practice? Please share your expereince.