In Fall

I’m in the woods in fall, staring up at the leaves. Oaks may be the last to change color. The elms are already golden yellow. I follow the graceful maneuvres leaves perform when coming down. The quick drop of a maple with its edges curved inward. And the slow rotating canoe of a birch before it gently lands. I am beside my dad in fall, who, at his age, has lived  through over sixty of them. We are trying to be the first one to catch a leaf.

One reason I love fall is because it’s constantly slipping through our fingers. In its name is the action of what can’t be stopped once it’s begun. When winter hits it’s always cold, and all the leaves have gone into the ground. It's dark and quiet and I love winter for this, when it strips a forest naked. Summer is the return to green. Lush, hot, amplifying our love of water, how an ice cube melts against hot skin. And I adore spring because it comes right after winter, when the world bursts alive. Spring feels like the fruition of an idea, while fall lets the idea go.

But isn’t this so typical of fall? How it can bring adults beneath trees to anticipate the trajectory of falling leaves. Two grown men in a forest, swiveling and sidestepping like punt returners trying to get beneath a football. But even more so than pigskin, a leaf will change up on you right when you think it's yours. As you reach out to grab, pinch, or squeeze, the leaf will show you that it has another swoop to it, one more pirouette. The wind will show you just how elusive fall is, as you miss the leaf, stumble a little, like my dad does, exuding a groan of both frustration and joy.

It’s hard to capture a leaf before it hits the ground. I love the look in my dad’s eyes as he tries but fails, but tries again. It's the look I remember when he took me and my brother out to throw snowballs at cars. When he told us to perform a casual walk, meanwhile clutching packed snow behind his back. The look in his eyes when he yells Run, after the snowball explodes against a back windshield. A preservation of mischief and whimsy, like the leaves he collects and places inside of books—all of it in an effort to not be caught.

Yes, it’s true, fall can be too quick. Moving as fast as an acorn doinking off the roof of your car.  It’s here, and then in one burst of colorful change, it’s gone. But that’s why I adore it, because I want time to slow down even though I know it won’t. I want my son to stay three and half forever. To always be fascinated by compasses and clocks, and unafraid to cry or ask that I wipe away his tears when one of them breaks.

Fall reminds me that I am always losing the things I love, so I end up loving them even more. What everyone learns through loss is that time is never guaranteed. We are raised by time, the linear sinking ship that it is. So fall reminds me of where I come from and where I may go. I think about my mom getting older after each and every sunset. The wrinkles in her smile she’s diligently tried to hold at bay. I think about my brother falling into his dying and the lengths I would go for one more conversation. And brief moments each morning, when my wife rubs her eyes before turning her head to the light coming through our window. I think about my dad right now, sitting on a log instead of standing, letting the leaves just fall into his lap.