Fall;
Sometimes, they call it Autumn, no one really knows why, but Fall has two different names. Before it was known as Fall or Autumn — this beautiful season was known as Harvest. What a complicated season this was — but for consistency's sake, I will keep to Autumn.
Children race down the forest path on their bicycles. The tinkling of their laughter, the clicking of their bells, crackling of the leaves on the pavement back home — a sign that winter break was about to arrive. The wind blows and the leaves fall gently — a mix of red orange and yellow, so bright, so overwhelming — like they were trying their hardest to cover the dull soil that fills the earth, not wanting something that illuminates such gloominess to be seen. I tuck my hands into the pockets of my coat that matched the colour of gloominess.
Autumn — the season of colours (although, mostly red) the season of exploring, the season of adventures. I'm reminded of the time you brought me out into the forest last Autumn. I refused to enter the place I was afraid of as a child — it was a zone I cordoned off and you knew that, but you brought — no, hauled me there anyway. I remember it was the first day our fingers intertwined, because you grabbed my hand and insisted it'd be alright if I didn't let go — how smooth the entire situation was going for you. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise — being afraid of the forest. You took me on an adventure, and we explored every nook and cranny that we could in our given hours. I remember that giant oak tree — the one you made me climb with you, all covered in orange leaves that were not yet ripe for fall. The squirrels that escaped the tree once we occupied its top branch, trying to fit as many nuts into their mouths as they could, they were an adorable sight and we laughed. Our voices rang between the trunks of trees that lined the forest trail, surrounding the maple leaves that now made up the forest floor, adding on to the business in the chilly acorn-scented air. You helped me up to your favourite spot and, as expected, the picturesque view was marvelous. The sun shone high and bright like it always did in Spring and Summer — merciless. It casted shadows on your face that defined all your edges. Your eyes reflected it all — glassy like marbles, and you had a jawline that made me melt. I spend too long watching the details of your face as you stare into the distance, watching the clouds float across the sky. I recall how you told me about what people say, that change is the only constant, that even seasons and forests change a shade or two every once in a while. I nod. But no one ever looks at the Autumn sky, you say, it's the same as every other season — still the same shade of blue from Spring all those months ago. You told me that if I ever needed to find comfort in something, that I should look up at the sky, that something so vast was a constant that none of us found the time to see. I nodded again, and knew from then on that I was going to rely on the sky for the comfort I so rarely found in change.
Autumn — the season of come-and-go, the season of change, the season of leaf-raking in the backyard each day. I never liked change but I've always loved Autumn. It was beautiful; in the way people sat on park benches to watch leaves fall, in the way children piled up raked leaves just to jump in that pile of orange — even if it meant that they'd have to rake them up all over again. It was beautiful in the way that the world appeared to be dying, but wasn't. Leaves were being shed — for the arrival of new ones. Animals were going into hiding — to prepare themselves for their busiest months that would soon come. And Autumn was ending — for the beginning of another beautiful season.