What Lies Beneath the Fall

Fall is my favorite season.  I remember taking hikes with my dad around Mount Rainier, when I lived outside of Seattle, photographing the mostly lime-green birch tree leaves, striking in the sunlight in contrast to the black and white tree bark.  I have now lived in New England for exactly 1/2 of my life, thirty-four years. It's home.  The Northwest I long for no longer is and probably never was.  Besides, the fall leaves here are spectacular in Maine, drawing leaf-peepers from all over, visitors who once again clog our streets before winter settles in and it becomes as quiet as my husband's sleep when he straps on his CPAP machine and no longer rattles the bed and harasses my sleeping with his snoring.  But fall is also a contemplative time for me because it's when my mother died, exactly on the Autumnal Equinox.  Like much of life which can be glorious and yet sad, I feel a tinge of sorrow.  The brilliant red leaf rests like a ruby against the wooden steps which lead to my front door, reminding me of the change of seasons which is always and never-ending.  I am supported by those steps, feeling at peace recognizing the endurance of what lies beneath.