Fall

Dana stood at the kitchen sink and looked out the window at the sunlight brightening some leaves.  At the shadows darkening others.  A yellow leaf fluttered to the ground. 

Fall.  I love it, and I hate it. 

As she waited for the coffee to brew, she opened the cabinet over the toaster oven and looked up at the white every day dishes.  No.  Not today.  Today I'll use china.  As she walked into the dining room, she shivered.  This weather's perfect.  It was almost 70, but with a cool, fresh breeze.  She felt it stir the tiny hairs on her arms.  She glanced down the front of her nightgown.  Saw where her tan flesh met her bathing suit line. 

She stood in front of the china closet.  I'll take the green one with the 14 karat gold detailing.  The door on the hutch squawnked as she opened it.  She looked over her shoulder.  Listened carefully.  Did it wake anyone?

It was the last day of summer break.  Last weekday.  On Monday, it would all start, and it would all end.  The sleeping late would stop.  The structure would begin.  Dana would watch her middle daughter walk down the street to high school.  She'd kiss her son on the street corner and wave goodbye as the bus to elementary school pulled away.  After that, she could do whatever she wanted.  They could do nothing they wanted, really.  Except for recess, maybe.  There was that one year the sandwich child had been banished to a bench.  For yelling too loud.  On the playground.  Dana had offered to homeschool the kids.  Three heads in a row moved left, right, left, right, like synchronized swimmers.  "Don't even think about it."  "I don't want to leave my friends."  "I want to be in band."  She'd exhaled a secret sigh of relief.  They're brilliant.  Way smarter than me.  I could never teach 'em calculus, physics.

The oldest daughter had determined to be a light.  "That's why I want to go to school."  To shine like a star in dark places.  She'd done it here, now she'd do it halfway 'round the world.  She'd hold little, golden hands and say, "Five minus one equals four," in Spanish.  She'd pray for her new friends to know what she knew, to feel the love she felt.

Dana warmed her hands on the delicate green cup.  She filled her nose with coffee steam.  It smelled strong.  She pushed the saucer to the side and laid her cheek on the glass table top.  Watched her breath form a circle of condensation.  I've done this for thirteen years now.  It never gets easier.  Every day had led up to this one.  Well, to Monday.  In the airport, she'd hug and kiss her oldest daughter and wave goodbye.  She'd say, "See you in . . . three months."

"On Skype, Mom.  I'll see you on Skype.  Tomorrow afternoon.  Remember?"

Then she'll hug me again.  "Please don't cry,  Mom.  I'll be fine."

And I'll grimace, sob, and be ugly, like a dried apple doll.  Only wet.  Soaking wet.

Dana heard the stairs creak.  The shush of feet headed toward the kitchen.  She picked up the edge of her nightgown.  Used it to wipe her tears. This fall.  She glared at the calendar.  I hate this fall.

And then there were none . . .

"Hold still!" I said to my son as I took a picture of him, coming down the front steps this morning. I do it every year on the first day of school. I capture his size, his hairstyle, his outfit, forever. I have pictures of all three kids on the first and last days of school. If only I scrapbooked.

This morning as I put my son on the bus yet again, I remembered the day I sent him off to kindergarten. The bus pulled away and I cried but I smiled too. I felt alone but I also felt free.

I stayed on the corner, squinting at the horizon. Something was out there, way out there. I put my hand over my eyebrows to shield my sight from the glare. A breeze nudged my hair. Its coolness made me shiver. In my gut, in my spirit, I knew everything was changing.

I walked back to the house, considering my life. The last year and the one before that had been like a black and white photograph. No, that’s not right. There was always color, but the color was washed out--pastel and weak with undertones of grey. Personally, I don’t care for pastels. I think they’re wimpy.

When I got to the house I sat on the porch and thought about how for the past four years or so, I wanted more. And then recently, I wanted much more. For the longest time I'd felt like a sleepy caterpillar in a dry and raspy, mocha latte-colored cocoon. I longed to be a butterfly, an aqua and magenta butterfly, starting to nudge and poke and kickbox my way out of the dustiness. I wanted freshness, greenness, sunshine and new life to fill me and my veins to overflowing.

I put my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees. I remembered how it felt like my life was a bellcurve. I was climbing the left side, inch-worming towards the top. It seemed to take the longest time until my son got on the bus that first day. Once he started school, the plummet began.

I started sliding down the other side, slow at first but then I gathered speed. I gathered other stuff too--power, joy and assurance. Assurance that this is the life I was created to live.

God whispered things to my spirit. “You’re getting warmer. . . stay on this path . . . don’t go through that door . . . .” He sent me people and even songs that echoed his will for me. “Go for it! Fulfill your destiny, the one I wrote for you centuries, millennia ago.”

Finally, I had ears to hear. Finally, I believed what God had told me all along. “Your life will count, beloved. Your life will count for the kingdom.”

There would be no more, “most men lead lives of quiet desperation” for me. Henry David Thoreau can keep his quiet desperation! What a snore! I want more than a grey rag of a life!

I put my hands over my heart. It felt like God was in there--breathing into a bubble or a balloon inside of me. What would happen if he let go? I imagined it would go, “WHOOOOSHHHH!” It would twist and shout, somersault and dance all over the world in glorious, ecstatic, technicolor bliss.