Thursday, November 14, 2013

Reflections Giving Thanks Beyond the Autumnal Equinox

It's a cold, rainy Thanksgiving Day.  The muggy late summer slipped gently into fall and now it seems we are tumbling into a cold, dark winter.  The bright, red,yellow, and orange foliage has been stripped to expose bare limbs. The trees undressed beyond nakedness to nickel-gray-and-black skeletal, lifeless zombies of the summer past; not quite dead, not quite alive.  Or maybe they are fresh new storefront mannequins of the coming spring and summer.  At this
point I think the former is more fitting.  It will be five dreary months before the gray Pittsburgh skies open to reveal the sun and reward us with occasional blue skies in the spring.

As I rake the leaves for the last time this autumn I glance at a puddle near my feet and reflect on the murky image looking back at me.  A brisk breeze breaks the reflection and my train of thought.  The draft delivers the scent of dying scattered leaves, and memories of childhood games.  The sense of smell is a powerful catalyst of memories.

As I see my image reflecting from the puddle, I lie to myself, "maybe I don't look my age."  I close my eyes and drift into the past, inhaling deeply through my nose.  The smell of raked leaves trips a
kaleidoscope of memories gently carrying me back through the years, floating, as the clouds float above me.  Memories, barley there yet so vivid; like waking from a dream, the harder you think about them the further into the recesses they try to hide.  I am grasping at the mental imagery hoping to bring a moment into focus.  I open my eyes and a yellow leaf see-saws from the sky and settles in the puddle at my feet.  One moment I am raking leaves, feeling in some ways beyond the mid-fifty benchmark I crossed last June.  The next moment, I am floating back through the years on the see-saw leaf.  Falling, gracefully.

I close my eyes to revel in the memories of a six-year-old, excited about the holiday, anticipating a few days off of school.  I am giggling because I know my dad will never find me in this muted technicolor pile of leaves; my autumn igloo.  Can he hear me?  Does he know I am here?  My mother opens the door and calls out the dinner plans.  She asks my dad if he knows where I am.  He acts concerned and replies that he doesn't know; however, with each stoke of the rake he tickles my ribs.  I cover my mouth so as not to make a sound.

Another gust of wind opens my eyes and changes the reflection in the puddle carrying with it the memory like the leaf now blowing across the yard.  Who is to say which memories we are going to carry with us the rest of our lives.



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