I was walking home from my friend’s house (she gave me a partial ride home from school; we only live a block away) and in my alleyway a tree has shed its summer skin.
There was a meadow made on the asphalt, all yellow, orange, red, brown. Leaves everywhere. Not dead, not alive — hovering in that space between.
I caught myself wishing that it was always Autumn — a liminal season being one I’m more comfortable in. But I know that if it were always fall, it wouldn’t be as special.
So now I must make every day before Monday, before Samhain and the beginning of Winter, when the old Hag takes over — now I must make every day last as long as possible, so I can savor the season.