Damn the colors of fall. They mock me with their brilliance. Warm tones alive on cold winds paint a picture of despair and finality. They remind me of his smile. The end of what was new and growing and wonderful. Every year my memories are shattered again and again. Harshly carved faces frighten children into happiness but they are too young to understand the irony. They only know that he’s gone. I welcome the forthcoming darkness, for it is a good place to hide. I feel him on coarse winds that scratch my skin but it’s not real. Death is all around yet people celebrate and live on.
I’ve spent too much time at his grave. I’m colder now than I should be. The sun holds promise but angles away, its warmth disappointing. I have to care for my young one. He is the reason for the fall. He was born on the far edge of summer under a dark sky. My tears were the first to touch his face. Now he is with me, by my side, next to the grave of my beloved, silent. A Christian cross on white stone marks his bravery. It is generic along with a thousand others. His service could not save my life. The hot wind and sands of another world turned him to ash. A thankful nation will forget us. We will pass in their memories like the summer.
Fall was a time he loved. His blood was warm and he welcomed the cool nights. To hunt meant to breathe. Our embrace kept me warm. Last season is all I can remember. It is both the time before and time ever after. Never were we so high. When the last leaves fell he left me, nearly alone.
I carried his life with me and he would know in time. I knew he would return to me in the fall. He came back to me on the throws of a lie, wrapped in color. He would never know his son. I bartered for our lives. I would gladly sacrifice my own for his and so it came to pass.
The trees swayed barren, all color was gone as I placed the flowers by his grave. “I swore to take care of you, my young one. Tell your father I love him, my little boy, born still. Ask Daddy to tell you about the fall.”