Broken, lopsided Backyardigans tent.
Mangled soccer nets
Chair. Tricycle. Slide.
A storm is coming. The prior air whips around me, moist and warm, potent. The simple last crumbs of summer, advancing before wind and rain and possible destruction. But likely, nothing. We prepare for potential.
I hold my head to the sky, watching the reddened leaves twirl down around me, brushing me carefully as the birds seem to have lost their voices in knowing.
I finish and escape back to the house, leaving the slithering humidity to itself.
The earth seems right in fall, pieces snapped into place. I’ve always had this theory that we love best the season we were born into, the first we knew, the first air that kissed us. That we revert back into the arms we loved best. I can never wait for the leaves to crumble into color before they fall, for that shivering wind that whispers of winter, with the sadness of late summer. I can spend days in the woods behind the house, fingers entwined, eyes full up on lovely. My hands twitch with the memories of all the leaves I ever brought home, stunned by their beauty ad given to parents who never once denied it.
Somehow it just feels right, my body relaxing into it, into a season of decline and sleep.
I remember, I hold on to that day, after school, falling from the rock wall by the church into decaying piles of maple leaves, three of us laughing in an hour that lasted for days. I remember older, a day in a graveyard, stoned on acid, a conversation recorded about unicorns and the enveloping of the leaves I lay in most of that day, it’s earthiness holding me still as I laughed and talked of flying. I cling to the warmth of the indian summer after Vivian was born, the hope in that orange light and gentle wind, the minutes I’d stop and just breathe in the day.
In Spring, we dream. In Summer we dance. Through Fall we tell stories before Winter brings us to slumber. But we remember.