Fall is for Remembering

by Erin Fennell

 

You always had an affinity for orange.

Orange like the terry cloth bikini you wore the day you found out you were pregnant with me.

 

I think you admired the vibrancy of orange, like the fruit bursting with juice and life.

But orange is also a burnished hue of autumn, shining as the last rays of light are beautiful even as they take us toward death and decay.

 

Woken by that little breeze that speaks of fall, I rake the leaves. I tend to the trees, the plants. Like we used to garden.

Your favorites, a multitude of orange marigolds bloom under the sun,

brilliant and bright—

unaware of the promise of the season.

 

As dusk sets in, my hands are still in the black dirt,

body tired and sore in that way which leads to

a mellow, relaxed mind.

 

I look up at the small owl perched above,

staring.

It does not stop. It does not leave. I know it’s here for me.

Not a harbinger of death, this time,

I feel it in my bones.

No, it is a message from my mother.

In a flash I hear a voice in my head:

I am with you always.