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Autumn
Martyr
wilowisp
Autumn makes itself known to me through a color of daylight and a distant scent.

The golden part of Autumn is in the late afternoons; the sun seems to have just finished rising when it now prepares to set. These long afternoons are rich with bronze and copper, orange and red, long shadows cast from a tired sun. It filters through changing leaves and already bare branches. It promises nothing. We cling to it as a reminder of the growing night, and it gives us nothing in return. It is a haunted light, beautiful yet distant. It wants to sing without voice. This light is know to me as Autumn.

The silver part of Autumn is the scent of cold bedsheets rescued from some forgotten corner of our garage. I pull them out and let them snap in the chill wind. This wind is the first cut of the new season against our Summer flesh, and as such, feels so much more dangerous than it is. I wrap myself in the bedsheets; as robes, as dresses, as capes, as blankets, as everything and anything we need. The Nomad climbs up the slide, I fight my tangled way up the ladder. My brother and I play at warriors, at gypsies, at musical bands and wizards and super heroes. We have done it all Summer long, but somehow now, against the push of the cold and the return of school hours, this moment is all the more vital to us. The sheets are wrapped about my face and they smell so clearly of what I know as Autumn.

The Light I know as Autumn seeps through every moment of every season I have known. The Scent I know as Autumn returns now and then, but is forever tied to two young boys, 8 and 5, 9 and 6, who dreamed so fiercely together that both grew up to be story-tellers.

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