I wondered why my heart both sinks and soars, simultaneously, on the first cold morning in September. It never makes sense. How can I be so eager to jump head first into a new season, full of so many unmade memories, while feeling like I just can’t let go of the one that is about to pass?
What if I didn’t give
Summer enough of a chance, I worried. Maybe I got too wrapped up in focusing on not
focusing too hard, that I didn’t pay enough attention to summer’s details and
hidden messages. Is it possible that I asked for too much out of one season? Maybe
summer really isn’t the masterpiece we all think it is. Maybe it’s just a few
months of preparation for what nothing except autumn’s fiery passion can deliver.
September is tricky
month, I thought. You look back and wonder what you could have done differently,
what you missed out on, and you watch an entire season close its doors before
your eyes. Looking down at the city streets, I realized that soon enough, they
would consume the beauty of the next season too, sweeping each leaf up, one by
one. Why do the leaves look so beautiful
right before they’re about to die, I marveled. Is this how everything should look on their last days? I promised myself to appreciate their elegance until they fall.
I questioned how many late nights and secrets all the summer
leaves had seen…. maybe that’s why they’re always blushing red when autumn begins. This time, I wanted to keep a piece of summer with me, something that would
remind me that it will be here again, just in a different form. I wanted my
stories, my memories, and my nights to stay mine, without the cold air blowing
them away into someone else’s yard.
I then picked up the most intricate, brittle little leaf from the ground, put
it inside a book, and said, this one is just
for me.
