Usually, the equal light, half day, half night, falls on Ewan‘s birthday
September 22nd
It’s odd — not this year
Not this second sepia season of shawls and sipping tea without him
A season of soccer and sneakingly early sunsets
When school sets in and maple trees drop their helicopter seeds as they rub their tired eyes and fall to sleep
It’s odd — my son is not here
To scoop up tawny leaves baked by the last of sun’s amber light
When the crunch underfoot is muted by a child’s laughter
Leaves billow up into the air and mist down in slow motion, like dried, paper feathers
They come to rest on his head — sticks stuck in his golden, shaggy hair
Hair the color of straw
He smells of kiln dried earth — fresh and organic
A balanced, wholesome aroma
Half lighten and lively like baby shampoo, half composting as rain-soaked, decaying, sweet soil
I cannot fill my lung enough with the smell of him
I look to the west and hang my head this equinox
If I could run to the darkness holding Persephone’s hand
With a convivial heart I would go and wish him happy belated birthday
It’s odd — on this other shore
Remembering the equal light, half day, half night
Swelling with gratitude for the seasons I’ve known — the light, the love, the birth of a child
But then there is the dark, the death, the tears that don’t dry
The seasons I’ve known
Knowing they will come around again
Balancing the certain and uncertain all the same time makes for a very heavy hearted Libra
Seasons bring change
They bring promise
It’s odd — to still be longing for what is in store
This constant tug of love and loss and lingering hope for more
Our strain to make sense and find beauty in balance
And our eternal hope for the future, even a future where we know the sun sets in the west
It’s odd — next year
It will be even
I know; I checked the Farmers’ Almanac
