You haunt me in the fall, you know. When I encounter the trees on the verge of explosive color, I feel you there.
You’re with me when I crave apple crisp, and when I break down and make it.
I caught you in the curve of Caedmon’s nose a few days back as the kids crunched leaves underfoot and threatened to tumble into the creek that runs through the park.
I feel you so often on the corners of my minds eye, your spirit calling me to remember and reevaluate.
You’re gregarious now, joyous, often laughing and calling my attention to the fullness of life, rarely the darkness of death.
I ache for you, this free woman I rarely saw on earth.
Mom, can we make a dream date, somewhere on a grassy hill surrounded in fall vividness? Could you scoop me up like you used to do and rub my hair?
Just another chance to be someone’s baby, your baby.
I want to hear you gasp, almost orgasmically over the color of the oak trees along Baldwin street. Something about fall spoke to you and struck a spirit chord.
It rubbed off because my soul comes alive in this season, one of apples and golden hues and death.
So much life in death, so much beauty to behold in the loosing, the falling, the closing up shop as we mark another year in the books.
I love you, I miss you.