Season of Youth

Sitting in my writing chair, my eyes focus out the window to several thin branches of trees, a mere memory of summer.  Only a few staunch stubborn leaves remain.  Slowly, these fighters shake back and forth still holding on, while most of their comrades have long since fallen.   The fallen have been raked up, sacked up, or burnt up.  Still, some of them have the glorious honor of having children jump and scream into their gathered piles, as these fallen heroes give up their seasonal life for the carefree season of youth.

 

As the children leave for home, or on to some new idea of play, the leaves may waft in the breeze, or lay still in silence, still in waiting, as the days push the season further and further along.  As the days move on, more leaves fall from the trees, only to meet their end by the rake, by the sack, or by the fires of time.  Still, some leaves remain on the ground, as the days of laughter become shortened by the awakening of the moon.  Soon, the season of youth will walk through the night, knocking on doors for candied treasures.  The fallen heroes who gave up their life for piles of glory guide them from house to house as their backs reflect silver moon rays.

 

Sitting in my writing chair, the season of youth still clings to my memory like the leaves that still cling to the branches.  In misty recollection, a girl dressed up like batman walks across a yard full of leaves, kicking them aside for a knock on a door, as candy falls into an orange bag: spoils of the season.  Soon the memory is gone, replaced by the scraping of a rake, as the pile of leaves that propelled me down memory lane is placed into a paper sack.   With joy, I know that more feet will trod over silver dipped leaves, more laughter will fill the evening air.  Candied treasures will fall into decorated bags, the spoils of yet another season.  This will be mere mist and shadow for this season of youth to gaze upon one day in adulthood.    

What took you so long?

As my first novel continues on its journey of completion, my mind doesn’t just drift back to the beginning, it is pulled back.  I was a young girl with a vivid imagination, a girl who would dialogue the scenes which freely moved in my mind.  I was curious about science, space and nature.  In my need to explore, my parents bought a subscription to National Geographic, and I loved it.  My imagination soared as my younger brother and I made countless forts, explored vast worlds known and unknown, all in our own backyard.  I even imagined that I was Dr. Leaky, off to find some ancient fossil.  A purple bike with a white daisy basket was my time machine on wheels, and I was off, rarely to come home again before the streetlights came on.  I wish that my children could have this kind of carefree childhood!

 

My parents were always supportive and helpful, but I could spin a tall yarn, and with my constant dialoging, my parents weren’t sure what to do with me.  It used to bother me when my parents would tell me that this or that never happened or didn’t exist.  I knew that they were right, but yet they weren’t.  The way my imagination worked and still works, these places and people do exist.  I used to think that everyone was like me, that everyone creates stories.  My parents began seeing something in me, something creative, and so they always told me that I should be an author.  My dad always wanted me to write a story of how he and my mother met.  Their story was quite romantic, and defied odds on many emotional and personal levels.  Maybe one day I will write their story.  I say maybe, for what I have discovered through the last three years is that stories find you!  It is the characters who chase the author, beckoning, and sometimes yelling, until the author is thoroughly harassed to the submission of the pen.   Sadly, my dad is not alive to see the journey which began so long ago come to fruition, but I can tell you what he would say, if he were still alive.  “What took you so long?”