11.17.2008 - 6:28 p.m.

Yesterday was the first day of the season that smelled of snow. It reminded me of a few nights before then, when it had rained, a warm, end-of-fall rain that turns to low, horror-movie fog along the dark roads on the way home. I'd taken the back way that night, a two-lane through farms and woods. I've never seen Blair Witch, but I absolutely understand why they chose Maryland.

That night pulled the leaves down, leaving the trees bedraggled and bare afterwards. Which reminded me of what I'd almost written about the week before that, when the colors were in full, gorgeous variety, and the air smelled of turning leaves. I was married that time of year, on an historic farm where there were acres of perfect fall colors, all with that woodsy leaf-pile smell. It was a wonderful day, and I was happier than I knew what to do with. The sunset light in the leaves will always be tied to my memory of it.

But yesterday smelled of snow, and no matter how you dress up the timeline, it still goes like this: green, gold, gone.

There is more green after that, more and more, but it is never quite the same hue, is it. They are different leaves, and you are different people, and what you remember is no longer in the order it should be.

You are alive until the second you forget: that difference is important, and good, and its own sort of bright, beaten gold.

-stonebridge

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