Lost in Autumn

Seaweed!  (That’s her name.)  She sits comfortably within herself, resting in her cotton.  And her memories lie within her skin; the smooth fade of her brown fur tells stories of love for only the sweetest hands could cause so much damage.  She has been cradled and coddled and kissed.  She has been thrown and tossed and left behind.  I run my fingers along her body.  I see the many ways in which she can rest gently in my palm.  And she follows each movement with a  conscious fluidity.  She rests in my hand as she rested in my sister’s, softly.  You see, at the time of Seaweed’s birth, my birth was merely a passing thought conjured by my parents.  She was born March 19th, 1996, and I not until October of 2001.  Perhaps she sat patiently in my sister’s bedroom waiting for a fresh set of skin.  Or perhaps my alien fingers disturbed her sleep.  I will never know; she can’t tell me.    

I quite enjoy our talks.  She doesn’t puncture the air with words but caresses it gently with sounds of crunching leaves.  No, that’s too harsh.  She sounds like rustling leaves.  Like those that fall in silence and seek refuge in the dirt from passing feet.  Their timbre is warm and inviting, but not as warm as June and far warmer than December.  Yes, she sounds like autumn.  I hold her and I am reminded of a muted sun cascading over me.  Just as in November, when the sun’s lethargy begins to kick in.    

As I hold autumn in my hands, I find myself lost.  I become a spectator to her brown bark and an admirer of her star-spangled eyes.  I find myself lost in the nature that surrounds her.  Perhaps the solace I find within her mirrors the inner peace that accompanies a walk in the woods.  For now, I am stepping on dead leaves, surrounded by falling leaves, dreaming of green leaves but still feeling a strange delight in these dead leaves.  The crisp sound that accompanies my walk leaves a comforting chill on my neck.  Almost like a visit from a familiar ghost.  The setting sun reflects confidently on my cheek, and the glare of dusk nestles in my hair.  The air is chilled, but my cold blood has adjusted nicely.

As I continue my walk, I move farther and farther into forever.  The coolness of these rocky peaks and the gentleness of this soil will never fade.  Even after my footprints smooth over and my body can no longer swim in this autumn, the forest will remain.  Just as Seaweed will remain.  Or, at least, her memory will remain.  And when I go to retrieve those memories of my childhood, I am sure that I will reunite with Seaweed.  Her memory, forever in my mind as I reconcile with my fading youth.  And I will see her shadow on my bookshelf where she spends each day.  But while she has been blessed with eternity, I am not so lucky.  I cannot stay forever on some bookshelf, nor can I stay forever in these woods.  I must keep walking.

This forest, this town, has been my forever.  No other soil can recognize the soles of my feet, nor can any other sunset produce such a dignified ombre of lemon, peach, and lilac.  Perhaps my infancy will one day be awakened by some familiar sunset, one that will allow me to look upon it like some voyeur.  Oh, how I wish that sunset won’t be disturbed by my presence, for I am sure that I will be enlivened by hers.  But until then, I must become content with her impermanence.  Autumn falls too quickly for me to realize that it is now winter. 

I am awakened by the sound of Seaweed, rolling around in my palm.  The rustling of her fur like a sinking ship.  And, just like the water, she has no control. There are no muscles guiding her movement, only some strange force unknown to her.  My relationship with Seaweed mirrors that of wind to water.  Her body blindly conforms to the contours of my skin.  She has no agency and so I pity her.  Will she ever recognize her independence?  Or have her limbs been numb for too long?  Nevertheless, I am grateful that she is so trusting of my care.  I am devastated with happiness over the fact that something can trust me so deeply.  

I place Seaweed back on my bookshelf.  For a moment, I marvel at her independent movement as she slowly sinks into comfortability.  Stepping back, I watch her blend into the red oak that surrounds her.  I run my fingers along the edge of each shelf in the hopes that this dust will soak into my skin.  Oh, how I envy the days when forever seemed distant.  I envy my innocence and scorn my inability to regain that bliss.  I envy the way that I used to feel around Seaweed: carefree.  Now I can only feel the comfortable sadness of childhood memory.  But, unlike Seaweed, I control my body.  I tense my muscles and dictate their movements.  And so I decide to walk away from my bookshelf, from Seaweed, and towards some new Autumn.