Autumn

Autumnal leaves covered the ground. The air smelled dusky and had a slight nip to it. The gravestone read, “Dearly beloved, may you rest in peace.”. The wind licked the edges of my green wool coat.  I pulled it closer; it felt like the world was falling apart. It was the season of death, and autumn was death. The world grew old and started slowly falling apart. I turned away from the grey, cold gravestone and slowly walked across the graveyard. My tiny red car stood out in the grey environment of the parking lot. The keys felt cold in my hands; I quickly opened the car door and slipped inside. The interior of the car felt chilly. And I reached out and flicked on the heat to full blast.  

            The small red car drove down the quiet road. The turns bent my mind with flexibility and tension. Leaves landed on the windshield, reminding me of the world’s decay. Autumn is the sign of the world reaching its end. Every season promises something new; autumn brings up memories of what has been lost and the promise of death in winter. Each year spins by quickly. The future is never far away; the gravestone of my deceased father reminded me of the shortness of life. The promise of death is more significant than the promise of life. It seems so odd in this world, an entire universe of sunbeams and securities, promises. However, each season passes, and twelve months pass rapidly and end in death.

            The autumnal season brings the remembrance of the past into reflection. The busiest seasons were spring and summer. These seasons felt alive with energy. The car passed the bright orange and red autumnal trees that cast their shadow across the road. The cold shadows overcast my car windows, and the glowing numbers on the dashboard shone on my tired face. I flicked on the headlights of my small car, which showed a pathway out of the dark. On to the brightly lit city streets. I felt lost and cold. My car turned down Main Street, and I passed the Meyer’s café, where my father ate a freshly baked apple strudel and hot espresso once a week on Saturday morning. I could remember the sweet fragrance of the freshly baked apple strudels and the sharp smell of black, inky espresso. I would drink a hot chocolate with whipped cream on top of it, and my fingers would be stinky with the sweet sugar of the strudel. The café was dark as I drove by it. It would not be open until early the following day. I slowly drove through downtown, remembering the childhood memories of many outings with my father.

            The darkness covers the sidewalk; my bright headlights cut through the evening darkness, and patches of light from the street light up the sidewalks.  I saw the lone figure of a man hidden in the shadows of the buildings, his blanket swapping around his thin and fragile figure.

             My car’s interior was warm, and I drove out of town onto the highway. Memories of childhood now passed long ago; a rose before my gaze, like a thick fog of regrets, hopes, and memories of what was and could have been my life.  I regret leaving my father behind in my youth and moving on with my life. I did not once consider cutting off my relationship with my father, and I had not contacted my father for over a decade. The only time I communicated with my father was when I married and had my first child, and when I later divorced my husband and moved across the country for new employment.  

            My father had always been there. I never thought that, like the seasons, he would pass through the gates of autumnal decay and wintering death one day. Autumn always brings the promise of death and the end of a lifetime.