Red And Gold Fight Fight

No other season claims the distinct defining moment of appearance, as does autumn. Like a transition between photos in a slide show; one frame pushing away from your vision while miraculously pulling the next photo into sight.

At first, it's somewhat of a tug of war contest, and I refuse to lose.

I ignore my whiney petunias and tired geraniums. I even cheat on them and plant a vivid mum, in her delicious new dress, next to a worn out marigold.

In late afternoon, subtle shadows appear lengthened. Like a child, with a magic marker and yardstick they brag; "See how much I've grown?" I refuse to give them an inch, but as I fetch my mail, a marching band's cadence floats down the street.

I glimpse at a routine maple and get a twinge of awareness. I start an arguement with her and end up blaming a herd of gypsy moths. Then I nod, as if to say, "Go ahead, obey your maker, I understand the circle of life."

On a perfect summer nights walk, I HOPE for a full moon, but recognize the warm golden hues of Friday night lights.

Soon the signs are everywhere.

I rub and sniff. Neither action does it for my nose anymore. Sniff turns into a quick sleeve wipe, then I'm smashing my nose against my face so hard I wonder if it will ever bounce back. If I thought it would help, I'd schedule an amputation, instead I add Kleenex and Benydryl to the grocery list.

The down comforter comes out of hiding but it's only so I can leave the windows open for my final gasps of fresh air. I quickly rethink the whole windows open scenario when chatty 'tweens wake me while waiting for their big yellow taxi.

Finally the signs demand an answer.

The jeans, hooded sweatshirts, and thick socks have mysteriously floated to the top of the bottom drawer, and I still can't grab them quickly enough in the morning. The coffee screams for a cinnamon roll companion.

I've stalled and denied myself one too many times. I'd prefer November, at the very least, October, but alas, I cannot wait. I cave and set the thermostat to a brisk 58 degrees. I refuse to close the window completely, mainly because I'm stubborn. The cold reaches it's steely fingers past the first light of dawn and ignores the down. I try to find a warm spot or body, as I bemoan September. Before I can contemplate resorting to socks, the furnace kicks in. I slip back into dreamland, because I can. There's no use fighting anymore.

The moment has arrived and Fall is in the air.