Fall

As our days shorten towards the dark dream of winter, a fresh shine radiates from the changing leaves. Sparkles linger longer on the water, and flowers open more slowly in the crisp dew-filled mornings. Each day of sunshine feels like a siren call to abandon our work in favor of play, like an accidental affair that induces us to remain under the gaze of the sun until the last ounce of light is replaced by the twinkle of the stars above.

This year, the first day of fall was one of those days, filled with sunshine and clear blue skies, the hazy smoke from distant fires cleared by yesterday's rain. I warmed myself in the morning sun, then sadly concluded it was time to begin my least favored autumn task, the washing and storing of the patio chairs. It's always done with a significance that feels like defeat, in stages, as I cannot bear the thought of an empty deck surrounded by leafless trees, an unwelcome finale to the activities of summer.

But know I must begin because I will soon lose my hose privileges. For after many years together, I've reluctantly come to accept that I'm married to a persistent weather monitor, determined to keep the ravages of heat and cold away from our home. Even though we have yet to experience one frozen pipe, there will be a morning, not too long from now, when it's declared that the temperature hovers far too close to 32, and the hoses will be suddenly whisked away for the duration of winter, long before I'm prepared to cease my garden chores.

Amidst the cleaning, I only ran into one wayward spider, which made me jump and shudder. It was clearly not as large as the monster that caused a ruckus with the boys across the street as they yelled out "Giant spider! Look at that baby! Get the stick!"  I listened to their drama as I let the chairs dry, then flipped them over on top of my head, and carried them to the garage in the style of a woman from Africa. 

Just four chairs remain, not enough for a party, but enough for now, to maintain the illusion that the waning days of sunshine are not yet spent. As the day moved into evening, I sat in one of the chairs, and relished the light, ignoring the frequent inquiries about when exactly dinner would be served. It could wait.