Falling leaves marking time

Photo by Karolina Bobek

Autumn is the hardest season for me. It can be a melancholy time in the northern hemisphere, with leaves changing colour and sweaters coming out of storage. In Canada, I physically steel myself for the holing up I will do over the next few months as I turn up the thermostat, get out the couch throws, and change to flannel bedsheets. Each year, in the fall, I also have to prepare myself for waves of grief as my calendar turns through so many losses.

The kickstart for me is October 4, my mother’s birthday. She would have been 88. Actually, she is 88; she’s just not alive to celebrate with us. Family members light candles on cakes, texting each other pictures across provinces as we ‘cheers’ our memories.

A week later is my parents’ anniversary. They would have been married 65 years. In my head, they still are married; they are just not physically together to celebrate. Again, glasses are raised, and messages with heart emojis are shared across the family.  

And then November: one cat at 16 years. Three years later, his sibling. I visit their graves in the backyard, glad for the fallen leaves on top of the stones to keep them warm.

Finally, when the snow has landed, my dear friend Nadia. That’s the one that takes me over the edge. It’s been how many years… I stop to count, but then realize that the increasing number just hurts more each year. The growing time I’ve lived without her compounds my grief, not lessens it. That’s a kicker with grief: time doesn’t necessarily make it feel better. Since her death, there have been so many events that I have not been able to share with her. I do share them as I whisper them to the wind, but my heart aches still. Or simply, my heart aches. There is no ‘still,’ as if to imagine one day it will stop hurting. Actually, I don’t want it to stop hurting, because that would signal that the friendship has passed. And that would bring a whole new grief that I don’t want to heap onto my pile of autumn leaves.