It’s Labor Day weekend. The first weekend of September. The unofficial end of summer. The beginning of fall.
Driving around I notice all the small changes. Some first leaves already turning orange and red. Some of our flowers in the garden beginning to fade away. Squirrels hopping around, collecting the fruits of trees and preparing for winter. Our Sugar Shack having rows and rows of colorful mums – the signature fall flower of our region.
I know many people love the fall. Especially in New England with whole mountain ranges and forests exploding in bursts of colors. It is truly gorgeous. And, yet, I’ve always felt sadness alongside appreciating such beauty. Because it’s the last hoorah of nature before the darkness, silence, and death of winter. Not every plant survives the winter. Not every animal survives the winter.
Wen didn’t survive.
Her last fall season became the season of dying. Just like the trees bursting in a last hoorah of colors, our last fall season began with a last hoorah of activities. Our last-ever “vacation” in New Orleans; a last trip to the Big E; our trip to New York; afternoons spent sitting outside at our favorite cafe soaking up the late afternoon sun; sitting around the fire pit. And as the leaves began to fall, Wen’s health declined steadily.
So now the change of seasons, going from summer to fall, fills me not only with deep sadness but gut-wrenching dread. Flashing back already to what is yet to come, what came almost three years ago, what destroyed our world, what robbed us of our life, our hopes, our dreams.
In just a few months it will be three years. THREE YEARS that I’ve had to exist without my love, my soulmate. I’ve survived what I thought I could never survive for longer than I ever thought possible. Only someone who has experienced tremendous life-altering loss can understand the strength this daily quest for survival takes. Still takes.
I’m trying to prepare. Like the squirrels.
Because the seasons are changing. Inevitably.
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