Fall is coming. Its scent kisses the wind that whistles through my imperfect screens, a sing song of the inevitable. I watch the leaves fall from trees that seemed to have only bloomed yesterday, the heat drifts off the dew and is replaced by a coolness that is only found in Autumn. I had seen the large and pompous Harvest Moon peek out from the clouds early, as if he could wait no longer to bring in the fruits of humanity’s labor. The crops grow tired and sway, begging for their reincarnation before they wither under his expectation. And the golden fields of barley that once danced so beautifully in the summer breeze, has left me in the empty field alone.
I have a deep love for Autumn. I met my husband on the eve of its awakening many years ago. It rests in his eyes that burn a golden brown, his skin which is painted in light hues of ochre, in his worn and calloused hands that keep us safe; he is my evening season before the long night. As a summer child, I mourn the passing of my own season and hide away in his arms as the wind blows the withered birth of summer to rest once more. I wait, with such a passionate expectation, for the days of laughter; when children sing in the streets to festivals with painted faces and dress their empty scarecrows with the blessings of red and golden leaves. It is and has been for so long, the season of rest… where we let go before the winter binds us in.
I had gathered the apples for pie and will spend my afternoon dressing it in sugars and spice; thankful that my family is here and awake to this new day. My little one rests on my lap, the eldest in school and I only wait for my husband to wake up from his slumber to kiss me good morning and whisper, “I love you, I love you.” And I will think to myself, with a small smile, good morning my Autumn, it is good to see you again.