It sounds strange, I know — but I never really noticed Autumn.
Anyone who knows me even just a little bit knows my love for the summer heat and that my favorite colors are blue and red.
Anyone who knows me even just a little bit knows my love for the summer heat and that my favorite colors are blue and red.
Blue being the sky, the sea, the beachside; red the sunsets, the sunrises, the bonfires.
Something changed recently, though.
⸻
As people, I truly believe that we pick up on one another’s energy more than we’d like to admit.
And so, I am asked by someone I reconnected with, after a good three years of distance, if I like Autumn.
And so, I am asked by someone I reconnected with, after a good three years of distance, if I like Autumn.
“Actually, I never liked Autumn nor paid any mind to it. Until I paid attention to the color yellow, and realized how much I like it.”
Then I started noticing the yellow spreading — slowly but surely — across the landscape and all around me.
Golden waves spread across the pavements,
myriad dried leaves twirl
as the chilly breeze of a late October afternoon
travels across the city.
I notice the complementing colors on the buildings, the murder of black birds heading towards the south, ivory churches, even the vehicles parked partially on the sidewalks. Those rare but stunning trees that bloom in crimson, as if they’re on fire from within.
—
At last, I notice you.
A little bit closer this time, than I used to.
As we sit, cosy, at a Biergarten, surrounded by decay, I see the ways in which some things have changed — but not all, not everything.
Stories, plot holes — talk and talk.
About you. And then me.
A goofy apology. Again —
you, me.
Then you and I.
Then us.
Next week at 6:30.
⸻
The quiet and soft breathing between what you said and what you wanted to say but withheld. The uncertainty of what was, what is, and what could be a reality for you, me, and everyone else by tomorrow morning.
And the yearning for a dream — the kind that puts you on a mountain’s peak, somewhere across the Mediterranean Sea — in a garden, swaying on a hammock. Soft notes from the pear-shaped oud coming from the radio, as you read your newest book on gardening, while your companion prepares tea.
—
The golden and amber specks still flicker in your eyes when you’re in direct sunlight, and they brew espresso black once the sun weakens.
The way you light up when you mention your dog — an Aussie so sweet, she’s literally colored like cookies and cream.
I joke that if she wants to be cute, she better not look anything like you — as they say, dogs resemble their owners. Just like that round little pug that hopped right behind a tall, chubby man, and almost drowned in the aftermath of the changing season.
—
I notice how you like to wear your clothes in muted shades too — neutral blues that lean teal, greys, and burgundy.
⸻
Our talk ends up circling around the topics of overseas politics, poverty, AI,
and then… back around to children and their psychology.
I don’t know how I always end up back there — I only have one furry child at home, who’s blissfully unaware of technology, crypto, and anything related to cybersecurity.
Here and there, a playful dash of dissecting old labor comrades who appeared to be high on a drug unknown to us.
—
And there’s plenty of little rebels — masked, with swords made out of foam, running around, giggling, and looking for treasures hidden under the barrel tables. Tripping their parents as they walk. The price of reproduction, I suppose, is steep. But also kind of entertaining.
I don’t even mind the bug that fell from a branch, directly onto my forehead, then skydived into my remaining coffee.
⸻
Sometimes I’m noticed too,
and I wonder what that says about me —
or the gaze that lingers longer than it anticipates.
Tracing my profile, like a new page.
⸻
And once you bathe in the beauty of yellow,
you start noticing what’s been waiting quietly to be seen —
wondering if this time,
the steam will rise or fade into mist,
like the playground forgotten under layers of snow,
until the children bring it back to life
in spring.
Next week at 6:30.
⸻
