The Ghosts That We Knew

October is a magical month in New England.  The harvest is largely done, leaves are turning and falling off the trees, the days grow shorter and the air becomes crisper.  Winter is coming, but not just yet.

Like most people who live here, I think of fall as the best time of year in New England.  It’s the sight of foggy ponds and pumpkins and chrysanthemums, the smell of leaves and hay and apple crisp, and the feel of layers of clothes pulled out of dormancy clinging to our skin to warm us from the new season’s chill.

2018 has been a year of loss.  Some people who were full of life have moved on to whatever comes next.  Autumn is when I think about such things.  Really, it’s hard not to when nature demonstrates daily that this time is short and we’re all dancing on this earth for a short time.  Seeing the leaves turn or seeing Bodhi struggle to climb the stairs; really it’s the same thing.

Momento Mori.  This is the season of reflection.  The ghosts that we knew remind us that our time is short.  I must do more with that time.

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