Trees, leaves, bright colors falling around me all in large piles and drifts of broken glittered color that doesn’t gleam the way that it had in the rain last night. Thing past and things that are new, coming together itno the lost piles of the yard. Small flowers forcing their way up into the sunlight. Small new leaves unfolding in light green hues. There are little broken twigs and strange little beetles. Things are moving and waking. Things coming and things going. The change of the season is creeping along and I am sitting here at the window and looking out with little more then curiousity. What a strange world in which I live. Things are always moving and I wish that they could stay the same. FOrever one things and never moving into the next. SO much for planning and being soemthing that I can predict. The slowly greying hair that now lines my temples and i can tuck behind my ears. The strange way that all the children now call me mam. How did that happen? Wasn’t I a miss just yesterday? But my spring is past and I think that I am moving well into the fall. The colors are fading now and the trees are shaking their boughs. I look down at the spring in the little children and smile. They are all sunshine and vibrant joy. I have a difficult time imagining that I ever looked at th world that way. I feel like I fell from the sky this way. Jus tthis agning and strange creature that is something very different then these little peopole running about me feet. I touch the top of a girl’s head. She turns her bright eyes up at me and glows with simple joy. I have nevber known that kind of joy. I look out the window again and try not to think of the winters that have past behind me. The piles of stained snow and the bodies that are packed together like wood, waiting to be burned. The young standing in the doorways holding their guns and knives, waiting for an enemy to come. Striking down and bleeding across the snow, freezing into red slush. Life that will never know the next season. There is always a last season. I hope that my last season will be in ht e fall. When the trees are at their most glorious and the world has dressed itself in color. I would wish to stay in this world long enough to see that. The hand on my shoulder brings me back and I turn my face from the window to look at the young woman standing next to me. She is beautiful and the ring on her finger tells me that she has found love. I feel that I should know her, but those memories have faded from me. I can recall her eyes as a child, but she has no name and no voice. Even though she is talking to me now, I can hear nothing. She is a silence in this strange room that I now live. I turn back to look out the window and I wonder how long it will be before she has a child of her own and I wonder if she will bring that child to visit me. Will I ever see this young woman again? The wind pushes the tree against the house and the leavs scrape across the glass and I reach out to touch the other side. “Hello, strange” I whisper to the tree as it it pulls back its hand. I feel as though it has known me better then most. It has been stretching itse;f up towards teh sky just outside my window while out look out and at its feet there have come and gone so many little flowers. Little children that have strewn color at its roots and then taken their parade else where, moving on and growin up. The seasons change and then the rain comes. The roots become like skeleton hands clutching into the soil and digging the claws deeply to hold fast to the melting soil. The water pooling down the bottom of the hill and the brown sludge that was once at the feet of the elegant giant. Now it seems to cling to the hill rather then to stand upon it with such pride. But then the snow comes and cover sits shame. The soft blanket of white that softens at the worlds edges. I look to the sound of peoplke talking and I see the two little children running around the feet of a no longer young woman. I can recall her child eyes, but now they look at me the way that I had once looked so long a go. the time when I began to understans that there are things beyond the loss of the innoccence that there is a beautiy in the terrible knowing. I reach my hands out to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice me anymore. The room is dark, cold and quiet.