As we grow older our skin creases lightly to mark the change of the seasons and the passing of another year. Most of the world marks time by a single date, the New Year, and yet the season of Fall seems to be the more appropriate place to mark the change. In Fall, we see a beautiful fluster of leaves hitting the ground in all their glory of colors from the trees to the bushes, down to the dying of old grass and flowers beneath our feet. There is a coolness brushing the air, in a very gently way, that seems refreshing until it whips just a bit too strong on exposed skin. Another year gone by and we find that there is a new fine wrinkle just under our right eye.
The leaves decay. Rot and rain create a mustiness in the air. Everything is washed away over and over again. We bundle our clothes closer to our chest in an attempt to ward off the biting sensation of the Winter and we remember the Fall, those beautiful alien red spotted leaves folded in piles of perfect harmony waiting for the inevitable cycle. There was a perfectness before the rot took them and then they too withered away in a mark of that season.
By spring the clothes are peeled away in a ceremonious thaw allowing the warmth of sun to touch our skin. Even the fairest of us catch a bit of color to tuck away those new fine lines from the past year. We feel restored. The decay of the leaves seems so far away.
We glide the seasons now, did it ever rain?
That delusion that time has slowed prevails while buds blossom and the many leaves that will fall weigh down trees to mark the growth that is Summer, and then it is gone falling into a new cycle. Leaves turning, colors pouring through the sky, the cool whip of the air just like the year before. We got so comfortable in the warmth we forgot it would pass over us.
A look in the mirror a few weeks later marks our new season as fine lines show through a fading tan, along with new specks of moles and bumps that weren’t there from the year before. We grow, we blossom, we fade and our youth drops by within this season of paradox; both full of spectacular beauty and utter decay. Each year adding up the tally of time.