A storm rolls into my heart as the heat of summer leaves my body and I can feel the icy paws of winter’s cold scrape through the edges of the wind that rolls down the valley of my soul.
I am always faced with this time. We are always faced with this time.
The clocking metronome of the eternal circle of seasons: locked in the story of the sun, the rotation of our earth, the pull of the moon, the ebb and flow of the tide.
Here, out on this precipice of the yes and no of autumn, I feel at odds with the story that insists on unfolding every September. The return of the school year, the harvest, the letting go of the gardens, this time that reminds me that we must sit fallow a while so that we can grow anew in spring.
I am never sure where to stand when my children return to their desks. My heart wants to hover, outside in the school yard, wiping away my hollow, misty breath from classroom windows. Hovering there, as unseen as the promised cold of winter.
Yet I always turn away, with the ghostly squeeze of their hands still clinging to the sweat of my palms, knowing that I too am locked in the same eternal beat of the seasons; knowing that they, and I, must continue on our sometimes separate paths, forever locked together by the patterns of love -but slowly, as time permits, the growing up, and growing on, that follows every mother’s song.