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
