July decided that it wanted to make a name for itself before August elbowed its way to the front of the line, so the temperatures sky-rocketed in the latter half of July. It was weird to see empty fields where rows of corn and beans used to dominate the summer landscape.
Sure, families had planted gardens, but they were tiny compared to what I was used to seeing. What the winter would look like, no one could tell. I shuddered to think about the spring. Few people had supplies to last that long.
My zucchini was all but done, and only one giant sunflower lifted its head against the bright blue sky. The lettuce had bolted, though I pulled the last few tough leaves off the thick stems to add garnish to every meal. All the potatoes and onions had been pulled and hauled inside. I was rather proud of the cardboard boxes layered with my homegrown produce. I shifted the boxes onto a dark shelf in the basement where they were sure to stay dry. I planned to use lots of white onions when I made salsa. Just waiting for the tomatoes to do their thing and ripen in a big bunch to make a canning day worth the effort.
Feeling a tad lonesome, I let the oldest cat, Earl, into the house where he slept on the chair in the living room most days. His rickety old body could hardly jump the distance, and I knew there’d be a day when he’d fall back to the floor in cat disbelief. But for now, he was someone to talk to. Even if I knew full well that he was dreaming his last days away.
With the high humidity and heat, I didn’t feel terribly hungry mid-week. I had spent most of the day clearing out the back shed in the expectation that when Liam and the kids did make it home, we’d have to think seriously of getting a couple of cows and expanding our chicken run. We’d have to store hay for the winter and figure out how to grow our own feed grain. Other people were making adaptions—necessitating the use of every old barn and shed in the county. Wood and metal for roofing were going for a premium price. I had to make the most of what I had. And that meant clearing out the dusty space and shoring up the frame so it wouldn’t collapse over the winter.
Hot, sticky, and fearing the revenge the spiders would perpetrate on me for wiping out their webs, I trudged into the kitchen planning on nothing more than tomato slices and a glass of water for dinner.
I nearly had a heart attack when I saw a man sitting at my kitchen table. My first thought was that Liam had finally made it home, but then I realized that this guy was much too young.
He stood up and faced me, not a hint of a smile on his face. “I’ve got bad news, Mrs. Oxley.” I swallowed and gripped the kitchen counter. I didn’t want him to tell me…
I Had a Spirit
The temperatures continued to zig-zag right into August, but a storm front promised cooler temperatures soon. At least, that’s what Ben said when he returned with Dana and Juan following at his heels like lost puppies.
I was too depressed to care if an arctic winter was in the forecast. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that I’d never see Liam again. That I had missed his last days, his last moments. His burial.
The tomatoes and peppers had ripened nicely, and with the pile of onions I had stored away, I had enough fresh ingredients, with bartered cilantro from a family in town, to make a decent batch of salsa. Luckily, I had stocked up on vinegar last year. The extra gallon came in handy with all the pickling and canning I was doing.
After washing the five gallon’s worth of tomatoes, I sat on the hardwood bench at the kitchen table and cut off the bad parts, and sliced the juicy red goodness into tiny pieces. Next, I worked on the pile of bright red and green peppers, and finally, I faced the dreaded onions. I didn’t need a reason to cry. I had plenty.
Flies swarmed the pots and dove into my face, adding to my frustrations. Hot and sticky with a storm front pushing the humidity into the unbearable zone, I worked mechanically. Focusing on one step at a time.
Grab an onion by the tail
Slice one side.
Chop into rings.
Turn and chop into cubes.
Drop the pile into the pot.
Wipe my stinging eyes.
“You want some help?”
I looked up. There was Dana reaching for a knife and settling across from me at the table. Guess I didn’t need to answer. She could read my mind. Or so she thought.
I sniffed back stinging tears and lost my rhythm. I was supposed to be cubing, but I went to the sink and splashed water on my face instead.
After patting my eyes dry with a towel, I looked at my daughter. Why was I so angry at her? She hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, she had done everything right. Found her brother. Made her way home. Gone off and looked for her dad. And found him. And buried him.
“Mom? You okay?”
I stared at the onions. I wanted to hate them. But I couldn’t. “No. Not okay.”
Dana stopped chopping. “Me neither.” She had dropped her head onto her chest and I could tell by the heaving action that she was either sobbing silently or about to throw up. Or both. Maternal instinct to the rescue, I ran over and…
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Dana couldn’t stand still for a minute. Even perpetual motion machines of the world took notice.
I sat on the back steps letting a cool front work its magic. For the end of June, it was gorgeous. Cool sunny mornings, warm days with afternoon rainstorms, and blessedly chilly nights. “I wish this would last forever.”
Dana stopped pacing under the maple tree and stared at me. Glared really. But who am I to quibble? She had stayed longer than she intended, only because I threatened to get on my knees and beg.
“You’re okay without dad?”
I shook my head and tried to wave her comment into oblivion. “That’s not what I meant. I was talking about the weather.”
Her hands went to her hips. “It’s time we left. You’re not going to give us any trouble, right?”
Juan slipped out my bedroom door and stopped on the top porch step. I didn’t see him. But I didn’t need to. I knew the sound of my son’s footsteps as well as my own heartbeat.
I waited. Juan didn’t want to leave home. I knew that, but there was an unspoken understanding that he would go with Dana. He had to. She was going no matter what I said. But she couldn’t go alone. And I was hardly fit enough to traipse across an out-of-control country. I’d do better to keep the home fires burning. Literally.
I peered at Dana. She was the same woman who had driven to St. Louis weeks ago, but at the same time, she seemed so altered that I hardly felt comfortable in her presence. There was something she wasn’t telling me. And I was weary of not knowing—fighting off the horrors that raged in my mind. So, I countered with a question of my own, “You want to tell me about the aliens?” That threw her. I knew it would. The look that crossed her face when…
Into the Deep End
It was late by the time Ben left and the kids settled down for a good night’s rest before their adventure the next day.
To my everlasting gratitude, Ben offered to go with the kids. He didn’t start with that offer though. Ben is far wilier than I had realized. What comes across as boyish innocence masks a deceptively perceptive nature. He outfoxed Dana better than I ever could.
He spent the majority of the evening asking her advice, taking her lead. Even glancing her way when I suggested an early bedtime. Almost as if he and she had formed an inside club that knew better than color-in-the-lines-can’t-be-too-careful mom.
Juan sat back and luxuriated in someone else taking the burden of conversation off his shoulders. Though he did add texture to the stories, Ben got Dana to share details about their travels.
No one mentioned aliens.
I wished Ben had asked. For some reason, I thought he might be able to get away with that line of inquiry when it was clear, I’d be blown to smithereens for my efforts. Still, it was a great evening. A memory I could snuggle close to, comforting me through the ordeals ahead.
When I heard knocking on the kitchen door at six in the morning, I assumed it was Ben ready to roust the kids out of bed and hit the road for a fresh start before the sun climbed too high. I poured the last of the pancake batter into the frying pan and wiped my hands on a clean towel. “Coming, sir. Right in time for—”
Josh stared at me through eyes glossy with exhaustion, his body limp and his clothes filthy.
“Is he here?”
“Who? Ben? He’ll be coming along in a bit.”
Pushing past me, Josh stumbled into the house and landed on the kitchen bench, his whole body sagging. “No, Jared. Has he come by? Or said anything to you?”
I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the young man. Didn’t want to either. “No. Everything has been quiet here. Ben and the kids are heading out this morning—”
Josh wavered to his feet. “Don’t!”
I swallowed the fear lodging itself in my throat. “Why?”
This time the knock was followed by the door opening in quick succession. Ben swung into the room, his gaze locking on me. “You okay?” Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and Dana joined the coffee klatch though no coffee had been served yet, and I was as confused as…
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Kiara loved the sound of the wind rushing through the woodland. Earthy and rustic, it spoke of invisible worlds and steadfast powers beyond human control. Blades of spring grass poked up from last winter’s mulch, and buds swelled in the promise of better things to come. She sighed. If only…
The sun had crested over an hour ago, and she must return to her apartment, then off to her shrill, insistent work place, always maintaining a calm, professional demeanor.
A redbird alighted on a fence post, chirping an attractive, lilting tune. Why can’t I be a bird?
Her sister’s voice. Myra always knew where to look.
Kiara stepped from the shadows into the field. “Yes?”
“There you are!” Myra jogged forward. “Let’s go to the lake. Mother left a cold supper in the kitchen, and the boys won’t be back for another couple of hours.”
A thrill ignited Kiara’s imagination. “You think we could?” Doubt quickly cooled the spark to mere ash. “But I should prepare for—”
“Another workday?” Myra gripped her sister’s arm and tugged. “You’re always working, and when you die, your spirit will float about this beautiful planet, wondering why you ever lived.”
Aching pressure surged against an inner wall, splashing over the ramparts. Tears filled Kiara’s eyes.
The two women stood on the rocky shore, surrounded by cliffs held together by a phalanx of trees, ripples scurrying across the blue-green water.
A tall, lean man strolled toward them, waves splashing his toes.
Shock filled Kiara as she stared wide-eyed. “What’s Jagan doing here?”
Myra kept her eyes glued to the horizon. “Does he have to have a reason?”
Images of the muddy water, floating debris, homes half-submerged in the flooded plain filled her mind. So many had lost loved ones in the disaster. The funerals never seemed to end. Then they did, and everyone returned to work and normal lives.
Normal? What does that mean? “I thought he moved up north, away from—”
Myra shot her a glance. “He did. But now he’s back.”
“He doesn’t have family here. Not anymore.”
Scuffing a bare toe against a smooth rock, Myra rubbed a fish-shaped pendant hanging around her neck. “Doesn’t he?”
With a snort, Kiara tossed her head.
Jagan stopped and nodded. His eyes reflected grief mingled with endurance. “I was down the shore and saw you; hope I’m not interrupting.”
Myra hugged her sister’s arm. “Of course not. Mother has made enough supper for a spring festival; come and join us. The boys would love to see you. They’ve been working on a kite.”
His gaze glancing off Kiara, Jagan waited.
Words tumbled from Kiara’s lips before she knew what she was about. “Certainly. Come and be welcome. I have to return to work so someone should enjoy—” What? Life? She blushed in confusion.
Ignoring the unfinished thought, Jagan fell in step between the two women as they headed back to a small blue Honda. “You’re still at the same place?”
Kiara nodded. “Same work. Same family. Same everything.”
Myra’s tiny head shake obliterated the lie. The tiny woman pulled out her keys and slid into the driver’s seat. “You two sit in back and don’t tell me how to drive.”
After supper, Jagan met Kiara in the kitchen as she wiped the wooden table free of spots and crumbs. He tugged a towel off the rack and started drying the dishes. “Keeping busy helps, doesn’t it?”
Her throat tightening, Kiara kept her gaze glued to the polished surface.
“I moved away. Thought I’d find peace if I didn’t have to run into a memory every time I turned around.”
The distant sound of rumbling thunder echoed off the hills. “But now you’ve returned. For good?”
He smiled and lifted the clean stack of plates onto the middle shelf. “For good? That’s funny. I hardly know.”
With a shrug, Kiara dismissed his honesty. “I like to keep busy. Productive.” She squeezed the sponge and laid it neatly on the soap dish. “Not a problem.”
Jagan leaned against the sink and nodded. “That’s good. I hated it when I couldn’t feel anything anymore. Just a vague unease, like something was supposed to be inside of me that wasn’t.”
The wind picked up, and branches swished against each other, groaning in stormy delight.
A shiver ran down Kiara’s arms. “I should’ve headed back to my apartment this afternoon, but I got caught up in the spring sunshine. And Myra and mom wanted…you know.” She sighed. “I’ll have to get up extra early tomorrow to make the drive if I want to get to work on time and do stuff.”
With a playful twinkle, Jagan twitched the towel at Kiara. “Love doing stuff, do ya?”
Laughter bubbled inside Kiara. “You betcha! The more stuff the better! I’m one of the best stuffers—” Suddenly, as if she had been stripped of every article of clothing like in a horrible nightmare, left without a single defense, choking tears killed all joy.
Jagan didn’t ask. He simply took her in his arms and held her. Softly, without possession, advice, or comment.
Her tears stained his brown shirt, but she couldn’t stop them. She hung on and let the tears do their work. After a deep calming breath, she pulled away. “I still have to go tomorrow.”
He nodded. “And you’ll manage another productive day.”
“I will.” She looked up and met his eyes. “And you?”
“I’m home now. Grief can find me whether I work or play.”
Rain pounded the roof and beaded the window. A breeze sashayed into the kitchen.
“I wish I were a bird…”
Jagan took her hand, led her to the doorway, and flung open the door. Messy drops drizzled and splattered.
He pointed to the treetops where a nest swayed in the wind.
Queasiness unsettled Kiara’s balance. “How do they stand it?”
He gripped her hand tighter. “It’s home.”
“The place where you face life’s storms.”
As the drops slowed, Kiara relaxed, peace enveloping her. Home isn’t a place. It’s a presence. For the first time in forever, her soul flew.
Trees, in their giantess of spirit, talk to me on a daily basis. Thank God, or I don’t know who I’d go to for advice.
It’s the end of a long day—a Monday to be exact—and as hectic, overflowing Mondays have the uncanny habit of following slow, afternoon-nap Sundays, I fight the desire to head out to the edge of my property and simply be with my dear friend. No words necessary. Oak always understands.
I wouldn’t have to go into the tedious details concerning the weird dream where I painted a dirty wall then promptly tossed a blanket over a messy box that really deserved to be cleaned out, but, in dream-world impossibility, the blanket would simply have to do.
No need to explain the emails. How does one respond to sincere attempts to communicate in a world where opinions rampage like charging horses in a medieval joust, and it’s frankly disloyal—perhaps even disingenuous—to cheer?
Gordian knot, you’re playing with me.
Today’s foraging through the shops demanded keen instinct—keep to the designated list despite the fact that items left over from the holidays were practically a steal. Who wants to steal holiday decorations when looking forward to spring? Yeah, sure, there’s always next year… But tonight’s dinner quandary demanded my attention more. Fruits and vegetables. A last stand between winter and spring festivities. That or admit that ol’ Oak and I have more in common than I’d like to admit in matters of girth.
Noon found me strolling. Oak greeted me, always the gentlefolk, waving last seasons crumpled brown leaves, rustling a soothing tune. I still had a story to write, online school plans to cajole, money matters with which to contend, and dinner to devise.
Oak didn’t mind a bit of it. The wind blew. Clouds scuttled. With plaintive meows, cats arched their back in invitation, and dogs raced like puppies. A red bird shot onto the woods, a blue bird flashed by, and an eagle soared. If I wasn’t one with nature, it wasn’t for Oak’s lack of trying. Steadfast par excellence.
Pasta with two kinds of toppings kept the kids’ bodies and souls in happy coexistence. Presently sage and citrus incense burn over the glowing heater while Henrietta hamster daintily chips away at her carrot. I am staring at dark windows, knowing full well that Oak is still and quiet this time of night. He doesn’t need to speak. He just needs to be.
Maple out my bedroom window wakes me each morning with waving branches, seasonally decorated. I’m waiting for the spring-fairies to visit. Any day now. Pines pierce the sky, tossing their still-green branches in see-what-I-still-have proud display. A forgotten nest sways, unbroken, a hopeful reminder of summer guests.
In a time-is-running-out reality dotted with doubt, my arboreal familiars offer more than words can say. They speak in rustles, rough texture, variegated colors, off-white tones, but most honestly in their very existence. To be is their way.
No proof. No judgment. No certitude or pride.
To have been created says all. Alive. Perhaps not always perfectly. Rot infests the best of us. But speak, they do well.
Advice is best offered after sampled, and so, I find it true.
Abbas inhaled the bittersweet scent of the dying season, fully conscious of the vitality of his young companion.
Noman paced at his side through the spent garden, his gaze searching, though his lips remained stiffly in place.
They both knew why he had come.
Noman shook his head and waved toward the silent mounds where flowers, bushes, and fruit trees had once bloomed. “I’ve never understood your obsession with seasons. You know perfectly well that it’s just a repetitive cycle.”
Stopping under a gnarled tree radiant with autumn foliage, Abbas smiled through his discomfort. “Stages, even repetitive ones, have much to teach us.” He pointed to three milk-white moons rising in the light-green evening sky. “Everything is a part of a larger whole. We cannot live in isolation.”
Noman tilted his head and stared at the golden sun sinking onto the horizon. “If we are going to survive — much less thrive — we must choose soon.”
Abbas plucked a scarlet leaf off the tree. “Home is where the heart is.”
His tone bitter, Noman snorted a laugh. “You love riddles and poetical expressions, Abbas, but reality faces us with stark choices.”
A soprano note rose over the sleeping landscape, arresting the two. They stopped and listened as the voice danced, rising and falling, whirling with words until the singer burst through the gate at the end of the pathway.
She stood luminous, her long black hair fell past her shoulders, golden eyes sparkled in mischievous fun, and her lips twitched with unspent laughter. A long blue dress caressed her upper body and fell into gentle folds at her feet. A garland of late-season herbs crowned her head.
Abbas’s gaze darted to her rounded tummy, seeing in his mind the life curled on contentment within her body. “Angela?”
Noman’s perfect composure stiffened, a cord stretched to its limit.
Abashed, the laughter on Angela’s lips died. She swayed forward, her gaze slipping from Abbas to Noman. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean — ”
Abbas lifted his hand. “You are always welcome, my love. Any news?”
A fluttered sweep over her tummy, she smiled and nodded a polite salutation. “All is well.” She glanced into the sky. “I pray the same can be said for those under our watchful eye.”
Straightening, Noman scowled, a pedagogue forced to impart a hard lesson. “A time to choose is upon us. They have no intrinsic value other than in service to the greater good.” Noman glanced at Abbas. “I wish you could teach your husband to see with your vision.”
A flash of irritation sped over Angela’s face, quickly replaced by her usual serene unconcern. “My vision only extends to my own sphere. I make no pretense of managing the larger universe.”
Abbas gestured to the arched gateway leading to a magnificent castle, resting on a mountaintop surrounded by a pine forest. The stone structure with myriad exalted towers, round and rectangular windows on every level, and a domed central roof dominated the landscape. “Let’s return and enjoy our evening together.” He nodded at Noman. “We can discuss your concerns in more depth after a good meal — ”
Tapping his thigh, Noman’s agitation spread to the air around him. “There is little to discuss. I simply wanted to know if I had your support.”
Pained, Abbas dropped his gaze. “You have my support but your plan does not.”
His face tightened into a frozen mask, Noman nodded. “What I expected. Though I am disappointed. My mission is now clear.”
Angela sucked in a breath, her hands clasping her middle. “What do you plan to do?”
Noman waved her question away with a formal salute. “Nothing you need concern yourself with.” He turned to Abbas. “I will take my leave. Humans must face the greatest conundrum of their existence. Either they are slaves or masters.” He shook his head. “The council will see, I’m right. It’s a pity, really. You could have saved us all a great deal.” He shrugged. “But it’s no matter. The truth will come out.” He bowed low. “I must be on my way. The sooner I get this over with, the better.”
Angela nodded, her eyes clouded, her forehead furrowed in knots of concern.
In a blink of the eye, Noman disappeared. Only his footprints in the soft soil testified to his presence a moment before.
Angela sighed. “Why is he so angry? And why take it out on a primitive race that has never done him any harm?”
Dread filled Abbas, a gut-wrenching certainty that boded ill for many. “Noman was not created like us. Despite his intelligence and abilities, he lacks fruition.”
Angela swallowed, fear filling her eyes. “But why — ”
“For all of their limitations and failings, humanity can reproduce. A privilege denied him.”
“But he has his own glory. Can’t he see that?”
Abbas sighed and took his wife’s arm. “When we refuse the good in others, we often destroy it in ourselves.”
Angela jerked to a halt, her hand clasping her stomach. “He kicked!” She laughed. “It’s almost as if he could hear you and wanted to respond.”
Abbas lifted his eyes from his wife to the dim horizon, onto the first twinkling stars. “We best get home. Night is falling fast, and we don’t have much time.”
Angela patted his arm. “Don’t worry, my love. We’re protected here, and Noman will do as he pleases, in any case. He always does. What happens out there isn’t our responsibility.” She stepped away and beckoned with laughter. “Let’s enjoy our night together.”
Abbas let her go ahead and stood alone in the dark, his grief rising at the thought of his son inheriting such a universe. He shook his head. Slave, master, or honest service to all. Tears filled his eyes.
Being the glorious season of scarlet leaves, burnt orange pumpkins, tawny grass, caterpillars seeking the perfect abode to wrap themselves in a snug cocoon for the winter, geese flying low honking encouragement to their fellow travelers, (Though conceivably, they could be telling the last in line, “Hurry up, Bub, or you’ll get left behind!”) and the annual apple harvest for the winter’s supply of apple sauce, apple juice, and apple pie, autumn gets a lot of attention.
Even the bees get excited, hurrying hither and yon, with the inner awareness that the summer supply of nectar is about to crash in a seasonal apocalypse. There literally is nothing left for bees to do but huddle up and survive the coming freeze of all that is good and holy in their universe.
Birds adapt with sensible charm. Some fly off, like the aforementioned geese, honking their goodbyes as if to taunt the fools below. They know cold and snow are coming without a clue that humans and their appointed pets and other citizens of the animal kingdom, including a few feathered friends, have adaptions at the ready.
Critters, flowers, twigs, and trees realize that the game’s up, and the world of sunshine and plenty is about to collapse. They do what they must to either die with dignity or huddle into a catatonic “I’ll come back when things are better” attitude.
I know perfectly well that my son is gunning the mower ready to take down the last of the straggly garden, the porch flowers bend in limp acquiescence to shorter, colder days, the pool must be drained and excused from duty for the next six months, and that fun shorts and t-shirts will soon to be ridiculously inappropriate, but, still, I’m pleased about the seasonal change of guard.
It’s not because I’m skipping pages in the Farmers Almanac, imagining next spring. It’s not because bundling on layers of clothes and scrunching up close to my bedroom heater in hopes of maintaining feeling in my fingers excites my survival instinct, or that a daily tussle between battling the north wind or staying indoors until I resemble one of Count Dracula’s wives amuses my inner drama queen.
It’s because I’ve been endowed with a fairy-like fancy—I love autumn. I enjoy the slow decay of grass stems, the crumbling of the garden’s glory, sweeping grey clouds hovering with a threat of rain, chilly mornings ordering me to tug on long pants and a heavy sweater, bracing myself with stinging cheeks against a biting frost, the perfect rhythmic reality of change involving loss and endurance.
I’ve never had a relationship’s springtime last more than a few months. At some point, a misunderstanding sneaks in like a cold wind, or a different opinion edges it’s way to the surface, crumbling the green garden of interpersonal contentment. Culturally, nationally, historically—anyway I want to view my world—spring and summer never last. God, in His wisdom, prepared a place in me not only to accept the inevitable challenge of change, loss, exasperation, and suffering but to welcome the fullness of the natural life cycle. To accept that which I cannot change through the grace of a soul in love with more than what the birds know, the bees expect, and the decaying plants offer.
I am content at the sight of scarlet leaves and a well-stocked woodpile. I know my own autumn days draw near, and that thought should haunt me. But it doesn’t. My soul rejoices in the spirit of endurance and the welcome dawn of each new day, no matter how cold winter might get.
True light, beauty, and the joy of life emanate from inside—making every season glorious.
So, yeah, it’s that time of the year again. School arrives with all its rigor and tight schedules. The hot summer zigzags toward a mild autumn. Or so I hope. Late summer heralds the joy of cooler temperatures and lightens the weary weight of high humidity and sticky sweat.
Around here, August kicks off the birthday season and tumbles right into the holiday season. Suddenly there are presents to give and secrets to keep. The joys of life are not completely swallowed up by essays and exams.
I glory in every hint of change, watching with eager eyes as leaves turn from dark green to shades of and pink and red, while orange pumpkins and yellow squash form wobbly lines on the porch steps.
It isn’t autumn yet. But my imagination offers the next best thing. I can practically feel autumn’s coolness playing over my skin even while I inhale the hot smells of drying cornfields. The gritty dust of the road settles for the last time between my toes as I watch caterpillars wriggle their way to where ever they insist they are going. Even though grasshoppers fly in my face and annoy me, I remember Laura Ingalls Wilder’s stories about the late summer grasshoppers and luxuriate in the knowledge that they don’t arrive in massive clouds anymore and nibble away local farmers’ entire crops. At least that’s one problem we don’t have to deal with.
On Sunday, I took some of the kids to Coffeen Lake in the hopes of catching a cool breeze. Alas, the road was closed to the entrance we normally use, so we had to settle for a smaller section of the lake instead. Since there was a trail nearby, we decided, with true Sunday afternoon “What do we have to lose?” aplomb, we ventured ahead. After running smack into the fifth spider web, with sticky spider prizes attached, I sent my eldest son ahead to clear the path of all entrapments. Good son that he is, he did so without complaint, though I noticed after a bit, he did swing a branch ahead as he went.
Strolling behind, I noticed beautiful leaves along the path. I might have missed them if the spiders had been less diligent about knitting open-air markets on the path. I was surprised at the first crimson delight and astonished by the time I swept up the sixth autumn leaf and then found a perfectly formed acorn with cap still attached.
Through the week, I have let my eyes linger on their fading, crumpling forms sprawled across my desk, knowing full well that even autumn’s glory can’t last forever. The north wind will sweep fall’s gentle mellow mood aside as biting cold and white and black attitudes force their way to center stage.
This evening, a mosquito bite itches my leg while I watch patterns of leaves rise and fall over a speckled tree trunk. Green leaves hang still and quiet in the evening air. Birds chirp noisily, and my crimson foliage yet more crumpled and dried out warns me of things to come.
This year has been a collage of joy-filled triumphs and humiliating defeats. My kids have won prizes, graduated from classes, mastered new skills, and suffered the consequences of a world at war with its better self. I have discovered—to my heart-wrenching grief—that hoping for the best doesn’t always reflect reality. Some hopes and prayers are not answered as I wish yet I must plod along life’s rugged path even while keeping on the lookout for hope and light. This evening, my spirit is rekindled as I sit under the darkening sky and stars twinkle in concert with darting fireflies.
There is no perfect season, though autumn will always hold a special place in my heart. Perhaps because it seems so dreadfully honest. Its bittersweet end-of-summer breeze, whispers in my ear, reminding me to live not what is now only…but what might be. What should be. What will be… Searing hot summer winds scorch our souls and winter ice freezes our spirits, but spring and autumn balance the extremes. Each season journeys along by the hand of God.