The Evenin' Shadders

My backyard is covered in leaves. Dry brown, scratchy, crunchy leaves. They dance over our driveway and skitter down the street. Bear, the cat, hides in them; and on occasion, Zach throws a few up in the air just to watch them float back to the earth. Autumn. Outside at this very moment a full, round moon shines brightly in the November sky. Our neighborhood is quiet, save for the occasional car which slips down the street. Inside the house, the noise of people finishing their day fills my ears. Karen and Clayton wash dishes. Molly, the Border Collie trots by, her tags jingling. Zach trundles down the hall calling for his sister; she's still trying to catch up on all that school-assigned reading. Another soft autumn day. I'm thankful for the gift.

I'm surrounded by trees. The world is green, full and growing. Here, under the shadow of the old porch, I watch the trees sway back and forth, their limbs pregnant with leaves. I rewind to the past; back to a time when there were no worries about jobs, or issues, or problems that come with being an adult. For a few moments, my parent's house is again filled with the smell of summer: watermelon and fruit and the earthy-oily scent of my father's coveralls after a day in the oil field. There, briefly, I remember the dogged heat of the day, the squish of soft asphalt underneath my tennis shoes and the gritty feeling of dirt mixed with sweat. I close my eyes and relive the pleasure of the dark, damp cool that filled the house, the aroma of cantaloupe and the taste of ice cold tea. At that time, Kick-the-Can was a national pastime and transportation was simple -- I travelled a million miles on a beat-up Schwinn three-speed bicycle. I stand quietly and strain to remember my previo