Seasons. noun. Periods of time, often occuring in a cyclical nature. Frequently refers to the four seasons of the calendar year.

Image via Pinterest

Image via Pinterest


Highway 10 drifts around mild Midwestern hills. The leaves are beginning their raucous September surrender. We point at the ombre trees, their leaves flaming brighter the closer they reach to the sun. If we weren’t zooming down the highway on a deadline, we’d pull over to see the streams reflecting the full spectrum of fall, the hillsides blanketed in scarlet, the summer dying in glory. For now, we snatch glimpses at 71 miles per hour.


When I was young, I lined up fresh school supplies on my dresser in the weeks before school started. Uncrumpled paper, crisp folders, and smooth erasers were heavy with possibility and perfection. I admired them and their newness. Using them, unwrapping and scrawling initials and wearing away corners, was hard. As the school year went on, favorite pens bled dry. Sharpeners gnawed at pencil lengths. The special faded to ordinary. I understand why Tom Hanks offered to send Meg Ryan a bouquet of sharpened pencils in You’ve Got Mail. I’d adore such an offering, fragrant with nostalgia and graphite and unwritten words. But it would be so hard for me to pull the first pencil from the bunch and scratch out a Post-It, to watch the magic slip away.


My professor brings a bag of apples to night class. Each is bigger than my fist, its skin smooth and freckled with yellow. I press one to my lips. It smells of leaves and aged sunshine. Juice runs down my hand, spots my notebook paper with stickiness. I hope that my future students bring me apples, even if it’s cliché. I could eat three Honeycrisps a day at their fall peak and not tire of them.


It’s 7:30 and the sun is setting on the lake. It gets tired earlier these days. So do I. We sit on a picnic table dragged close to the shore. Talk is hushed by the fading light and the peach sky bleeding into deepening blue. On the water, the reflection wrinkles, and window lights shimmer like fireflies. Canadian geese flap loudly across the lake, skidding across the water on takeoff. When the last breath of sunlight dissolves, we walk away, back to laptops and textbooks. Though the daylight has fled, the day is not yet over.


There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens – Ecclesiastes 3:1. A time for leaves to fall. A time for fresh starts. A time for harvesting fruit. A time for setting suns. A time for seeing and praising.



6 thoughts on “Seasons

  1. See, feel, taste, touch! The variety of metaphors and simple yet varied sentence structure make me quite jealous. Does it flow as easily as it sounds?

    • Flow as in from my brain to paper? It depends very much on the day/hour/energy level/amount I’m distracted by Facebook…but it’s something I enjoy working at, so at least there’s that!

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