The Street Where Autumn Still Lives

 

Introduction:

Every year when the air cools and the leaves begin to fall, I’m reminded that memories often live in the smallest, simplest things — the smell of cut grass, the sound of wind chimes, the first chill that makes you reach for a sweater. Sometimes those tiny moments open a door to the past, and suddenly you’re not just remembering — you’re there again.

The Street in My Memory

Sometimes the simplest things can take you back to a place in your memories—especially this time of year, when the morning sun takes its time to rise.

I sat looking out a black window in the early morning hours. As the sun began to climb, so did my window, the cool morning air drifting seamlessly into my office. It made me reach for a sweater and pour another cup of coffee to quiet the chill.

I turned back to my computer—time often slips away when I work. I like to stay busy, sometimes forcefully so, especially these past few months, when my emotions have been in overdrive.

Then the wind caught the chimes on the front porch.

The soft, unexpected sound made me pause.

Outside, the leaves were swirling downward in a lyrical dance, the smell of fall filling my senses—a mix of dust, air, and earth.

And just like that, I was back in my childhood—

to the little colonial town with the tree-lined streets and old homes that seemed to whisper stories of their own.

I could almost hear the tap, tap, tap of my Mary Janes as I skipped over the cracks in the sidewalk. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. It was the long way to school, but I didn’t mind.

Light filtered through the trees in the early morning; the dew on the grass caught the sun and sparkled like diamonds. I wore the pink poncho my grandmother knitted me—I still have it tucked away in a box somewhere. It was still too warm for my faux-fur coat, surely a hand-me-down, but I felt special anyway.

Down the old sidewalk I went, kicking at the leaves as I skipped. The houses stood tall in their grand splendor, their yards full of color and the scent of autumn and dew. I can still hear the rustling of leaves as cars passed by, but I was oblivious to everything except that moment—walking beneath a canopy of trees, the morning wind sending a flurry of gold and red around me like a snowstorm of autumn.

That memory is where the child in me still lives—the part filled with wonder and enchantment. Even now, I can feel that giddy little girl again, skipping without a care in the world.

Then a phone rings in the distance, pulling me back to the present. I hit the answer button, and the memory fades—like the wisp of smoke from a blown-out candle.

But even as I greet my customer on the other end of the line, I feel it linger—

a quiet peace, a lightness of heart,

and the warmth of home, carried on an autumn breeze.

 

Each fall when the wind moves through the trees and the world turns gold, I go home again — not in miles, but in memory.

And that’s enough.