September is when I scour the stores for dragonfly charms, stained glass flowers, and artsy frogs in search of the perfect birthday gift. I go to the same boutique every year, hazelnut latte in hand because it’s her favorite drink, and slowly wander through each aisle. I linger in the section with leather-bound journals. The paintings lure me in, water color trees catching my eye because they remind me of the one I gave her for Mother’s Day years ago. It would go well on her living room wall, next to the wood stove where she knits. Purple earrings glimmer in the light near the doorway and I run my fingers along the beads, imagining how they would compliment the colors in the earth-tone wool scarf she wears when running her errands.

I laugh, thinking of her birthday dinner a few years ago. When she greeted me with a hug, I breathed in her familiar smell of cinnamon. She wore a dark sweater and a stone dragonfly necklace. The table was decorated with confetti, and we had drinks while she enjoyed the same halibut dish she usually ordered. She made friends with a handsome man I was eyeing at the bar, while I giggled in embarrassment. He asked me to dance and she told me to go ahead and enjoy myself. I returned after the dance to find the bill had been paid and she had returned home for the evening in hopes that I would live the carefree life she didn’t get to have.

In a rush not to be late, I dash out of the boutique and stop at the flower shop to pick up the Iris bouquet she so looks forward to. When I arrive, I pull on my mittens and readjust my scarf, the one she made me, before stepping out of the car into the chill evening air. I walk towards her in the dark, not quite as ready as I once was to celebrate her birthday, but needing to all the same. I stop and there it is, her grave, her final resting place. The vast view of the mountains she called home forever behind take my breath away. Sometimes I think she knew it would be like this, but I never was prepared for it. It seems selfish not to take my time when she has none, so I stay as long as I can before I get cold. I set down the Iris bouquet, close my eyes and, for a moment, I can smell cinnamon.

Pumpkin.

Nothing rhymes with it

Oh, except for bumpkin.

Pumpkin spice,

Pumpkin pie

Pumpkin bread

It's paradise!

I bathe in pumpkin,

Which I agree

Doesn't get me clean

And isn't sanitary.

I need a pumpkin

Carriage and six

Pumpkin scented horses

That walk on crunchy cinnamon sticks

And breathe pumpkin out their noses.

Carve it with a face

Scoop it out

Stick a candle in it

Short and stout

I wonder if there is a pumpkin

Big enough

To fit me and my candy stash

And all my bathroom stuff

'Cause I'll live there all the winter

As it rots away outside

I refuse the snow and gingerbread

And elves I can't abide

I'm an autumn girl

In a pumpkin palace

With a pumpkin swirl

And a curly pumpkin crown.

All hail the Pumpkin Queen!

Hands cupping lattes.

Uggs and Boots.

Long-sleeve knit sweaters.

Hues of leaves falling from trees.

Early sunsets.

Holding hands.

Love.

Fall.

I feel the crispness in the air as I step outside, the slight hint of change upon the air. My steps grind the leaves under my shoes into the dewy grass. My jacket hangs about loosely, unbuttoned.

Usually, I savored the changing of the seasons. Somewhere years ago, I read a quote from someone I can no longer remember about how each season feels right in turn. And so they do. The cold death of winter gives way to new life in spring. The summer sun brilliant and life giving, turns harsh and deadly as July fades into August. The coolness of fall comes as salvation once again.

Usually, I savored the changing of the season but not this year. I long to hold on to the summer a little longer. I want time to pass slowly. Let the sun set a little later each evening. Let the day go on a moment more.

It is not fear which bids me cling to the present, but joy. The beauty of each day I long to contain, to bottle up and lock away, to savor when darkness falls again. Everything feels as it should be.

My husband is happy, content and successful in his work. My son is still small enough to wrap up in my arms, though I know he will not wish me too much longer. My time is running out.

The next great catastrophe is looming on the horizon. I do not yet know what it could be but I do know we shall triumph, survive, or lick our wounds and began again. I do not fear the trial and tribulation which we have yet to endure. I just long to hold on to this day, each happy day, a little while longer.

I open the doors of the shed. I push aside the lawnmower and kick a water gun out of the way. Somewhere behind the sleds and the snow shovels, I find the rake. It still has a leaf or two from last year lodged within its prongs.

I emerge back into the yard, wiping a cobweb from my hair. I gaze about the yard and sigh.

There is no hanging on. There is only going forward. The clock cannot be stopped. I can only seek to savor the best of every day.

Fall is notebooks, papers, pens

Time for school to start again

Fall is sweaters, leggings, boots

Time to put away swimsuits

Fall is apples, crisp and sweet,

Pumpkin Spice, and trick-or-treat

Fall is first frost come by night

And yellow leaves in Autumn light

Fall is family at Thanksgiving

Eating, laughing, reminiscing

They all come to hear

Her miraculous belting

She hates when they leave

In her dressing room 

Later that night, no one comes

To hear her sobbing 

Her dear audience-

She feels she hasn't earned their

Thunderous applause

Once she used to dream

Of the life she now lives- turns

Out it's a nightmare 

Her voice has gone hoarse

Will she be able to sing

As well the next night?

She can, and she does 

The audience stands, cheers, claps 

She holds in a tear