Yesterday. The first day of Autumn.
In my head thoughts of pumpkins and cinnamon, frosted grass and pink cheeks mingled with those of leaves and pinecones and the scents of wood burning and apples baking and turkeys. I thought about handknit blankets, and fires burning and cups of hot cocoa and my pinecone wreath.
And yet, it was in the nineties yesterday (as it will be today, and again tomorrow. C’mon September, seriously?).
That afternoon, the sky darkened and the thunder rumbled. It poured. It hailed. Our football game was cancelled, which meant the crazy rushing around suddenly stopped.
There is a window on the top floor of my house that looks straight down our street, lined with houses. After supper, while the kids were getting ready for bed, I opened the shutters wide on that window and stood, watching the rain fall. I saw the maples along the street, their branches just beginning to blush with reds and pinks. They have grown since the last time I looked, finally beginning to appear more mature.
With my evening newly unburdened, everything seemed more beautiful. The rain, the trees, the little girl in fleece jammies and tangly red hair brushing her teeth. A pair of squeaky-clean boys, a girl snuggled in bed with her box of tissues and her book, and The Man that I am so lucky to call mine.
The darkness fell outside along with the rain pattering on the roof, and the soft glow of our lamps seemed warmer than normal.
I settled in under the covers, and I began to dream again of Autumn.