We're traveling backward in time from where the leaves were past their peak of color to where they bloom orange, red and on to where there is none. I miss the turning of the leaves, trips to the pumpkin farm, a hayride and buying fresh pie and cider from the stand. The children were little and they liked to see the scarecrows and run the haunted corn fields.
Now among the saguaro and ocotillo, the seasons are not as dramatic. Yet, one morning while walking with my brother in Sabino Canyon, we turned to each other and said, "Can you feel it?" Autumn was blooming. There were no leaves to signal the transition but the light in canyon had changed. It was warmer in color. The light hung lower, later in the sky. A sense of melancholy hit us.
I don't know where he went but I was back in Pennsylvania in our woods in Waverly waiting for a big yellow bus to come and swallow up my children - off to school. Skipping around in time, I visited Northridge, Chase Street, and the smell of high school books and how the light entered my window. Followed by East Stroudsburg and off to college, the house where my parents lived was over 70 years old, brick with a big yard - no fences to keep you in.
We talked about this, my brother and I. Something about the fall always takes you back to your past. Perhaps, it's the sudden chill and the anticipation of snow and bare trees... Or maybe it's the falling leaves. But now living in Tucson, it can't be either. It's something in a dream from the corners of your mind that haunts you.
I got to see the colors in Pittsburgh this week. I thought about my children... homemade Halloween costumes, pumpkin pie, laughter rising up from the piles of leaving - dancing, and big Thanksgiving dinners. My children are mostly grown now, but they'll be home for Thanksgiving. And soon, I will be a gramma and another generation shall rise. Outside in the darkness as I fly home, the mountains and valleys pass, the view transforms. I can't see it but I know the leaves turn, turn, turn... Just as I know, for everything there is a season ...
I don't know where he went but I was back in Pennsylvania in our woods in Waverly waiting for a big yellow bus to come and swallow up my children - off to school. Skipping around in time, I visited Northridge, Chase Street, and the smell of high school books and how the light entered my window. Followed by East Stroudsburg and off to college, the house where my parents lived was over 70 years old, brick with a big yard - no fences to keep you in.
We talked about this, my brother and I. Something about the fall always takes you back to your past. Perhaps, it's the sudden chill and the anticipation of snow and bare trees... Or maybe it's the falling leaves. But now living in Tucson, it can't be either. It's something in a dream from the corners of your mind that haunts you.
I got to see the colors in Pittsburgh this week. I thought about my children... homemade Halloween costumes, pumpkin pie, laughter rising up from the piles of leaving - dancing, and big Thanksgiving dinners. My children are mostly grown now, but they'll be home for Thanksgiving. And soon, I will be a gramma and another generation shall rise. Outside in the darkness as I fly home, the mountains and valleys pass, the view transforms. I can't see it but I know the leaves turn, turn, turn... Just as I know, for everything there is a season ...
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