What autumn brings is hope.
“How can that be,” you ask, “when everything is dying?”
In spite of this, no, because of this, we are forced to ask and then act in consideration to answer: what is the meaning of all of this?
I walk along paths covered in leaves and shelter my eyes with my arm from the brightest sun I’ve ever seen. Trees of every color—orange, yellow, red, and brown are reflected in the lake as we disturb its tranquility by skipping stones.
This won’t last, I think. The beauty of the leaves means they are preparing to die. But. They will be born again.
When we finally get back in the car, I put my cold hands on your face and smile, and though I know it is useless, I wish again for time to slow down; somehow, to stay.