Leaves

A leaf crunches beneath my feet, and I glance up into the branches above as another leaf falls toward my shoulder. All around me the trees seem caught on fire, their leaves radiant red, orange, and yellow against the drab brick and white-frame houses. The sudden color of the leaves makes me feel as though a toddler with a red crayon in one fist and a yellow one in the other has added random scribbles to the blank coloring book page of my neighborhood. But, in reality, it's the last gift of the trees before they rest for the winter.

I remember when the leaves first appeared in March, when the bare trees outside my window began to bud, and their leaves unfurl. I remember the day I woke up to dim, green-tinted light pouring through the glass, instead of the harsh rays of the winter sun that had glared unmediated onto the carpet on previous mornings. For months I'd sit on the balcony beneath the shade of those trees, with only small speckles of light slipping through the leaves to illumine the book in my hands.

Now those same leaves form the psychedelic carpet that crunches beneath my feet, the colors reminding me of the wild shag carpet of my childhood bedroom. The reds, orange, and yellow brightened my walk home today, and as I walked past them I thought about transitional seasons.

Finally a pause has come in my semester, which has allowed me to lift my gaze from the path beneath my feet long enough to notice my surroundings. Suddenly I find that my constant slog through the tasks of my coursework has brought me farther than I realized. There are a mere three weeks remaining in the semester and I have already registered for my final semester of this program, and perhaps of my schooling. I can see a new season coming, a spring that will follow. But at this moment, I long to enjoy the bright leaves while they last. I have loved this place, this program, these people. I have loved the season that I see fading and, on days of doubt, I wonder whether the leaves will reappear just as beautifully again next time. The leaves won't be the same, they won't look the same. They never do. But there will be leaves again, and they will give shade and speckled light, and they, too will turn bright and fade away.

As I write this, I can hear the rain falling outside, and I know that its drumming and weight will bring many of the remaining leaves to the ground. But the rain nurtures, too, so new green leaves will be able to appear in just a few months. So I lift my glass: to the brilliance of the autumn leaves and the hope for a new canopy soon to come.