Her Favorite Time Of The Year

It’s always quiet on this street. No sounds. Weeds wrestle in the breeze. Tree limbs reach out for cloudy skies. Bushes and fences dividing houses. The grass was cut one final time  before winter  came. Candy wrappers from a Halloween night litter the sidewalks.

He raked his yard. Piles of leaves throughout his property. Gold, reds, rust, orange colors turning brown. They crackled when he swept them. He pushed fall’s harvest to the curb. Made a straight line, a wall of leaves. Kids jumped in head first. Not knowing what was beneath. Blue jeans with grass stains on knee caps.

It’s this time of year that he thought of his mom who had passed on. Autumn was her favorite season. Funny how she passed away in winter. Snow was in traces. Ice on streets. The Christmas tree had been put away. That’s what he was told. He was not there. 

They said he never was on time. Always a day late and a dollar short. It was evening when he got the call. Family told him she’d passed on. He said goodbye in his own way. Lit a candle, said a prayer.

Now he rakes leaves and thinks of her. Her favorite time of the year. In the spring the leaves will return. It’s all one big cycle. That’s what he believed.

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