Fall is not my favorite season, though it’s recently grown on me.  Instead, I relish the first signs of spring, of tracking the morph of new buds and leaf pods into maturation.  Every year they’ve escaped my vigilant observation, then suddenly display their glory of life unfurled. But fall is the opposite.  It hints of hibernation and the process of life shutting down.

My father died in fall.  The news of his fatal illness happened on the very day my husband and I were informed of our infertility.  Life paralyzed with this double blow.  The soul racking sobs were relentless. I struggled just to breathe.  Death permeated my past and future. 

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