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October 28, 2011

“Tomorrow,” they say.

Autumn will cease and winter will call on us with big wet flakes that leave a frosty stain on what remains of the yellows and oranges and deep greens of my yard. The trees, still sodden from an exceedingly rainy season, will lose their leaves before their colors fully develop and rise like fire into the pale grey sky. I can practically hear the whoosh of the season’s door closing swiftly in my face.

It makes me sad because there is this thing I love about fall, about the colors and crisp fullness of living. I first noticed it when I was in college, along the foothills of Virginia, climbing the long drive into Sweet Briar. The leaves fell in such a particular way there and the Sun peeked through the limbs of the ancient trees as if it were perched on a high branch. They came through that streaming light, silver and gold, wafting and floating, light as a feather, light as a feather. It was enchanting, mesmerizing and hypnotic, a true symphony of nature, and I would watch from behind the windshield as they danced across the hood of my car.

If you take the back roads and are prone to noticing such things, you know. It happens there, too. It happens here as you crawl out into fields and countryside that butts up to our suburban life. Sometimes, on the way to soccer practice, it happens that there is a car in front of me as we fly down the s-curves of Limekiln Road and the leaves roil out beneath it, across the unlined pavement and tumble through the air. I always slow down and take them full on the glass, listening for the tiny peck of the long dry vein on impact.

Tomorrow everything will be wetted down, pushed beneath the slush and glum of a Winter-come-too-soon. And while I don’t dislike winter, I am against it arriving just now, somehow predictable and still not so, the way death is always too sudden. It’s startling and lonesome and unfair, and yet it will come, without concession and soon after, as it pillows on the windowsills and mulching, I’ll say, “Oh look! Isn’t it pretty?” But I will miss the leaves and what they stood for, what they fell for, and so, today, I will drive on the back roads and walk among the trees. I will watch the leaves swoop and fly and gather them with icy fingers only to toss them back to the sky and watch them come again, silver and gold, as they always have. As I hope they always will.

10 Comments leave one →
  1. Joan Haskins permalink
    October 28, 2011 10:48 am

    Everything you write delights me.

  2. October 28, 2011 11:12 am

    You have such a beautiful mind. Wish you could walk through camp with me this time of year, you would love everything about it. xo

    • October 28, 2011 5:50 pm

      Wasn’t that guy with the beautiful mind crazy? If so, then yeah … Probably! Hahaha!!! I would love to take a walk with you. Somehow I think we could stay gone a long long time. Xoxo

  3. October 28, 2011 12:07 pm

    I do that too. Although here in the great Nor’East, winter always likes to come by and snap that wet towel of snow against our bare backs around this time of year, just so we remember who’s boss.

    • October 28, 2011 5:52 pm

      Gotta love a nasty beeyotch with a wet towel!! Keeps us all in line though, so I guess that is **really** something!!!

  4. October 28, 2011 12:51 pm

    glorious words, like the season that’s too short this year.

    “I always slow down and take them full on the glass, listening for the tiny peck of the long dry vein on impact.” — is perfect.

    • October 28, 2011 5:53 pm

      Oh the pressure of a perfect line!!!!! Smooooch~xoxo

  5. October 28, 2011 3:15 pm

    beautiful. Fall here wasn’t even fall. It was an 80 degree summer with leaves a-changing…today felt like fall, the breeze was perfect, the maple trees were swaying and the streets are flooded with fallen leaves, you would love it here today.

    • October 28, 2011 5:53 pm

      My Har. What I wouldn’t give to have spent this day with you. Love you!

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