Saturday evening I broke away from the kitchen after dinner and took a long walk, stepping out onto the sidewalk and kicking through the drifted leaves along the curb. I pause under a fiery Japanese maple and gaze up through its branches. The sky is clear and the air is cooling, the dipping temperature quietly heralding the end of the day. As I head down a dirt lane that winds between fields and forest, I notice the farmers are still on their tractors, harvesting sugar beets and potatoes. The fresh turned earth smells sharp and salty like the sea, and I pull in a deep breath and linger over the complex scent of life.

Further down the lane, someone is burning leaves, a sweet and acrid smell that fills me with an odd mix of joy and melancholy, triggering memories I can feel but can’t name. Here the road is lined with neat rows of towering elms. Their leaves set sail with the evening breeze and coast to a gentle landfall , decorating the dusty road with layers of yellow, green and brown. I tip my face up time and time again to watch them fall, but still I’m startled when one lands under my collar like a spastic moth banging into my face.

When I turn to head back toward home, I discover the full moon rising in front of me as the sun is setting behind me. Windows in the distance reflect the days’ fiery end as the butter-colored moon summons the night. A field of yellow flowers glows in the day’s last light.

Every fiber of me sings with contentment as the leaves dance and the trees lean into the lane like eager spectators at a parade. I draw in the sweet, smoky, damp smell in the air and watch my breath become visible with each exhale. Caught between the setting sun and rising moon, the deepening sky and drowsy forests and fields, I feel the season shifting gears. With gratitude I gather up the harvest of my happiness and turn toward home, my hands full of blessings, jammed in my pockets.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 17, 2005