A Walk with Autumn

I miss Autumn, and he's only just arrived. 

Now he's putting on his coat, ready to leave.

I can feel the air growing colder, Winter breathing down his neck, impatient.

He says he wants to go for a walk before he leaves, so we do.

I kick walnuts down a hill. 

They always seem to stop before reaching the bottom, diverting to one side or the other.

Autumn tells me to try again, and for some reason, I listen to him.

I feel a strange need to see one of the walnuts reach the bottom of the hill.

Maybe it's my need for closure. 

The catharsis of seeing one of the spheres roll gently to a stop.

I try again, and it softly halts at the base of the hill.

We keep walking past old schools and houses, boards in the windows. 

We're almost home now, and I feel something heavy in my chest. 

I don't want him to leave. 

He smiles and gives me back the earbud he had in his ear, the other in mine. 

He tells me that Winter isn't so bad, once you get to know her.

I'll only see him 60 or 70 more times in my life if I'm lucky.

He waves goodbye and fades from view, crunching leaves underfoot as he goes.