Last leaves and my sense of seasons
Up north, even the short distance between my home in Somerville and my hometown in New Hampshire, the seasons move differently; here the last leaves cling to bare branches, rustling in the breeze.
I still see golden oak leaves from my living room window back home and a few green trees on the grounds American Academy of Arts and Sciences. I’m both startled and comforted. Here, the cold whips sharper, the summers not as intense. I’ve never fully adjusted to the different rhythms at home. My sense of the seasons rooted here.
Autumn came late
Even here, though, the autumn came late. Summer held on through September, and the first frost, which forever snaps me back to a sunny day walking to elementary school, crunching icy leaves beneath my feet and watching my breath twist and turn in the morning light, did not appear at the appointed time. In place of nostalgia, I feel fear over a warming world.
A slow turn toward winter
Yesterday, walking Ollie along familiar paths, I nearly slipped on an icy leaf-strewn puddle. Relief. For now, the world still turns, even if off its axis. Leaves fall, trees reveal their essential selves, and we human creatures burrow.