Seasons of Life

Belle was happy to still hear the blue jays screeching their sing song “thief, thief, thief” when she walked outside that chilly afternoon. She smiled to herself remembering how Gran used to say the Blue Jays were the biggest thieves of the song bird world, but always blamed it on someone else with their cries.
The air no longer smelled of lilacs and roses as it did when she took ill, but Belle didn’t mind. Fall was her favorite time of year. The air was crisp and clear. It smelled the most pure to her. She could smell the freshly cut hay from the small farm next door, and it reminded her of the days she was able to help out at cutting time.
It was everything she loved about the season that day. The sun filtered down through the reds of the maples, the browns of the oaks, and the yellows of the birch. She saw her own life in theirs. Even though she felt better, she knew her time was limited. She would soon blow off in the breeze like a small leaf finally released from the stately Red Maple she’d played under when she was a child. Her father had put up a tire swing for her there. She could still feel the wind rushing through her hair as she swung higher and higher. She wished she could have that experience again, but her frail limbs were no longer meant for swinging. In any event, her lungs couldn’t take the pressure.
She ambled slowly across the yard to where she could see the tall White Pines. They stood so straight and true. Not even the harshest of winds could bend them. Her brother was one of those White Pines. He still stood as tall and was as hardy as they day he’d come out of the Army. She still doubted anything could take him down.
Below, the dark green of the spruce trees filled the gaps. She took a few needles off one and rubbed them between her fingers. Her mind went back to Christmases past with her family all together around the tree. She remembered back to the pumpkin pie her own mother made starting in November. There was always one for Thanksgiving and another for Christmas. She thought she’d baked them just for her – and maybe she had. Belle had done the same for her children, who loved the pie just as much. Somehow, though, her pies never were as sweet. The taste of the spice on her tongue, she thought of her children playing at holiday celebrations. The children giggled and played loudly with their cousins, who they seldom saw. How she wished now that she hadn’t shushed them. Their laughter rang in her ears, although they were all old enough now to have their own children to shush. She hoped they didn’t.
“Let them play. Let them be young.” Her voice was carried off on the light breeze. More leaves fluttered down around her. She lowered herself gingerly at the base of the closest Spruce. As she felt the moss of the forest floor comfort her weary bones, she watched the animals play. The bright blues of the Jays darted back and forth. A black squirrel chattered off a gray in the deciduous trees behind her. Something red glinted in the sun. She turned her attention up the hill to see a fox running across the crest between her land and the farm. She hadn’t paid as much attention to this scene since she was young. She’d missed this all those years. But she had great memories, too. She’d taught her family about the importance of nature, long after she could truly enjoy the long treks herself. Her grandchildren had brought her back wonderful treasures from the forest and the rolling hills that she had played on as a child. The children were the spring. She was the fall slipping quickly into a winter slumber. She closed her eyes and prayed that she would make it through the holidays – not for herself as much as for those who would come to visit. She hoped to have one more year of children running and yelling. One more year of pumpkin pie. One more year as a fir tree before she succumbed.
Word Count: 717