"And the days dwindle down to a precious few, September, November..."
Gone are the days when, walking to grammar school, I'd head for the biggest pile of fallen leaves I could find and delight in the crisp crunch of dried and discarded leaves beneath my schoolgirl shoes. Back when all of life was ahead, not behind, and those leaves signaled the advent of a new season ~ something to look forward to with the innocent thrill of childhood, and not that unsettling lurch in one's tummy ~ the very definition of bittersweet ~ wondering just how many more autumns, and piles of leaves, we have left in our lives?
I was always emotionally torn about my birthday falling in early October. Yes, it's a beautiful season; but that beauty soon turns to the cold and dreary days of winter. I've often wondered how differently I'd feel about turning another year older if, instead, I'd been born in spring or summer, both seasons signaling the beginning of something sweet and warm? Would I celebrate it differently, feeling joy rather than that vague but deep melancholy sadness that seems to have accompanied just about every birthday for as long as I can remember?
Ah, but that is not for us to question for there is nothing we can do about the date of our entry into this world. We can only wonder, and guess. And remember...
"And these few precious days I'll spend with you, these precious days I'll spend with you..."
