That Time of Year
It’s a time of year when the trees burst into glorious color. But it’s also when the days grow shorter and the nights seem to grown longer. Those after-work strolls up the streets in sandals and shorts are just a memory now.
It’s dark when I get home now. Heck, it’s dark when I leave work.
I’ve tried to hold off on searching for the heavy winter coat. I don’t want it to be winter yet, although the truth is that winter is nearly upon us.
* * *
There are still some remnants left from fall. The leaves in the gutter. The tree up the street with brilliant red maple leaves … still on the branches. The sun still brings warmth, although it’s often pushed behind fast-moving clouds and a cold wind.
* * *
Later this month, we’ll take a train to New Jersey. I was going to say that it’s been a long time since I was back in New Jersey, but then I remember we were there in late May — or was it early June? New Jersey is pleasant in the fall, but it’s not nearly as colorful as Western Pennsylvania. Maybe it’s because most of the trees in New Jersey have been cut down.
That’s not entirely true, of course, but it sometimes seems that way.
* * *
For some reason, I don’t have many memories of fall when growing up. Maybe it’s because we were always in school. I have a lot of memories of school. Walking to school. Being in school. Walking from school. Or maybe my memory is simply going.