Autumn. A cold tremble in the air. Molecules slow, microbes drift, somehow, while we slept, summer reached its apex and began its descent. That imperceptible millisecond between inhale and exhale. This year, there was no moment between, no holding of breath, no golden stasis. The leaves are about to turn, to blush with anger, denial, then mourning, loss, and the fall. They’ll mattress the ground and go brittle. We’ll be there to kick them up, and as they stir beneath our feet so too will memories of childhood stir deep within us, when there was no adulthood burden to re-clamp itself on our joy before our feet reach the ground again. Scuffing along, a smile will hitch up the corners of our mouths, the only things rising in the damp atmosphere, and the first bloom of breath frosting against the frigid air will form tiny crystals on the thick pane that separates us from the past. Where it condenses we’ll draw this summer’s hieroglyph with the tips of our fingers - a heart, a frown, an isosceles triangle - and wipe the moisture onto our pants, step away from the window, and return to work.
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