I stood at my window and nostalgically watched my maple leaves fall one by one to the earth. Is it our egocentrism that interprets everything in relationship to ourselves? Is it that personal pain of realizing as each leaf gently sways to settle to the earth we too are past our prime? The freshness of May, the fullness of August, the richness of September is a memory now. It is time to bring in the hose and the lawn furniture. It is time to change the screen door to glass. It is time to plan for Thanksgiving dinner and hope everyone can come one more time to fill the house with the sounds of children’s laughter.
The morning sun filters through the yellow birch leaves and red maples casting a crimson glow on a man walking his dog down the street. He is bundled and scarfed to fight off the bite of the crisp morning air. Does he know he is being watched? I doubt he knows he is part of a Norman Rockwell painting. He will most likely return home to get out the rake and harvest his leaves. If this were 1940 he would put a match to them and fill the neighborhood with the perfume of fall. It is not 1940 and we shall have to be content with the scratching sound of his rake sliding across his walkway.
It is the week for children to dress up as ballerina dancers, pirates, big league ball players and come to my door for candy. I shall open the door and see a host of little people who would not understand what I have just said to you. But they shall. They shall. For that is the progression of the seasons.
Written by Roger Bothwell on October 25, 2003
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