Autumn Finally Came

Autumn finally came, right on time, slowly, gradually, unnoticed, as it does each year, sneaking up on us, the nights cool after hot days, the days cooling slowly, too, unnoticed, mornings light subdued as we rise and drive to work, our livelihood, all of us up and out, our days beginning. Now, the leaves are turning, a few at first, green to yellow or red or brown, a single leaf leading, the others following, in turn, and falling, one or two, a few, a few more, till on a Saturday afternoon, mid-month, I dig out the rake buried for the summer in the garage, the air now noticeably cool, chilly almost, a sweatshirt pulled over my head, and take myself outside, the slow process of raking leaves a relief actually, a break, outside alone, for raking leaves is a solitary job, raking alone this spot chosen, starting here, a rake dragged, pulled toward my feet, raised and pulled again slowly, no rush in raking leaves, leaves brought forward into a pile forming.

This is the season to be alone, Autumn is, alone, raking leaves, contemplating a life slowed down, this Saturday afternoon, our lives so rushed, so hectic, so full, time alone to contemplate where we are, where we’ve come from, how we arrived, traveling our memories back to childhood, to simpler times, times of leaves pressed between waxed paper, ironed flat and hung around the classroom, taped to windows, our young version of stained glass,  windows of wonder; of leaves piled high, our fathers slowly raking, pulling leaves to their own feet, or pausing, standing propped against a rake at rest, looking off, contemplating, perhaps, as I do now; of those leaves piled high, mounds of leaves calling to us to run, to jump, to launch ourselves into piles of leaves raked up, piled high, cushioning us, our voices shrill in the autumn air; of football games on a Saturday afternoon, the warmth of Autumn sunshine turning cold by game’s end, hot chocolate, apple cider poured to warm us again, returning home.

Alone, we pull the leaves toward us now to pile at our feet, red and gold and brown, or prop ourselves on rakes holding us up, staring off at life slowed down, contemplating, remembering, the leaves of memory sustaining us for the approaching winter, reminding us of where we came from, reminding us of who we are, sustaining us and keeping us alive.