This fall startles the eyes. Here it is mid-November yet most trees in our neighborhood remain covered in leaves! Usually those leaves by now lie, a lifeless brunette, blanket on the earth like a giant discarded bath robe. For some quirk in the weather, this autumn each tree is a giant jewel. The early morning sun catches each facet of maroon, crimson, orange-crimson, orange, orange-yellow, yellow orange, yellow or rusty brown. One neighbor’s maple sports a coat of pure orange; another’s locust, spun gold. My winter maple, somewhat out of sinc, is a dessert of crimson, orange and yellow orange. It is difficult for me to watch my step during my A.M. constitutional. I cannot seem to keep my eyes off the shimmering trees above me. I cannot remember ever being so captivated by color.
A few years before he died, my husband told me that for some reason, life seemed to present him with more and more opportunities to weep. As I approach the age at which he revealed this new occasion for tears, those huge, fleeting jewels against the bright autumn sky cause my heart to flutter and my eyes to moisten. Age, though humbling, has its compensations.