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The third prompt of October is the word, Autumn.
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Once, long ago, it was spring. Maybe it does not seem that long ago to you, now, but for me, it is practically an eternity. Or perhaps, it is just as long, but for different reasons. Perhaps you can brush it off as a once happened, but as for me, well, I...
Do you remember that springtime? No, not last springtime, not just any springtime, but the one of three years past? We spent that springtime here. Here, here in this garden. Do you remember that day, when the morning lilies first bloomed, just after the rain? It was then that you first told me you loved me. Here, in this very spot. And then you did love me, I believe, once, long ago.
It was here where I laid in the grass, making little chains of flowers, as you read to me of the adventures of sailors and explorers, crossing dangerous terrain, fighting for the good and truth! And here, here is the swing I once flew on, as you pushed me to the skies!
Do you remember the laughter that once filled this place? As you chased me through the trees, as you caught the willing me, as we tumbled through the grass, together, you relentlessly tickling me. And I minded not one bit, for we were together.
You and I, all that spring, were together in the day, and in the evenings, we would watxh the sunset and the stars rise. And you would whisper secrets in my ear as the day fell, before kissing me goodbye and promising to return the next.
Those days, oh, how I loved those days. Yes here, here is where we had happiness together- once.
But then came the summer of two years ago. Even as the first roses bloomed, they made us remember their thorns. You, you had to go. You were sent away, to do what you had to. You said you must be the explorer, you said you were called to be the adventurer. And so you were. And you did well in those duties.
I remember when you first told me, and how my eyes filled with tears. But mostly, I remember you. I remember how you held my hands in yours, and how you made me so many promises then. You promised you would write me as often as you could, you promised you would never forget. And then-
And then you were gone. You went, as you said you must. And I was left alone. I remember writing little letters every day, then waiting for every other Monday before stuffing them all in a little envelope for you. I remember watching the sunsets, all alone, and thinking of you watching the same evening sky miles away in some strange and foreign land. I remember reading the books you once read me, and wondering exactly what you were up to, and how your adventures were going.
I remember receiving your letters, and reading them until the very folds almost tore. I remember how I would wait each day, hoping. The poor mailman would usually shake his head no as he approached where I lived. But every so often, his face would have a bright smile, and I would run to meet him.
Your letters were my sunshine during summer, and the days grew long with waiting, yet you made them bearable.
And then came Autumn. You were supposed to come back, but you never made it. You left, where I can not follow. And even your letters stopped coming. I remember the last one, the last one I will likely ever get. How short it was! How incredibly short! And yet, I remember each word in this one, and it comes to mind, even more than do those first long ones. I remember, you addressed me by my formal name, how rare of you ever to do that! And then, you said you must go, forever. And then, you said you would love me until the end of your brief time on earth.
And that was all. That was all. My heart fell. I had been waiting all this time, but what I waited for would never come to pass. All I have now is memories, and like the leaves changing color from lack of life then falling from the trees, so too are my memories fading, fading. And I cry, for I had hoped to be with you always, and now, I can barely bring to mind how exactly you smiled, with the weird little dimple that formed on the left, but never on the right. You are fading, and out of my world, too. Oh, how could this be! Why?
I ask the world, but the only response I get is the empty breeze, dying softly among the life-less reeds by the dried up creek bed.
Yes, I am now alone. Alone in life, alone in this Autumn season. All around me as dying, and what once was is fading away, to be taken to the ground, like the leaves, where they will decompose, forgotten. Yes all is fading. All except me. Somehow, I have been chosen to be the tree, the tree that though all signs of life departs from it, must yet live.
But I, I do not want this. I want to leave, as you did. Yet, I must go on, and wait, for my roots are firmly planted. I must wait for the winter, when the cold shall come over me. A cold that shall numb every part of me, and all signs of life shall depart, even as they are departing now. I shall welcome this cold, and loose myself in it. The snow shall cover up all the death of my leaves, deaths that were important only to me and not to the world! Oh, poor leaves, that you were forgotten by many, and yet were necessary to my life. Oh, how I am now so alone!
I wait for you, winter. Take me out of this falling part of my life, for then, at least, I can lose nothing else. Come, come quickly! Take me out of this season! Out of this world!
...And, if it is possible, wrap me up until spring- if it can- comes again.
Autumn is a cruel season, filled with all the ups and downs of Spring, without the bright promise of longer, warmer days at the end of it all. She is a dancer that makes you break into a cold sweat, rather than a feverish passion; and when you shiver, it is not because of the rush of blood and heat through your veins. She wears dark eye shadow, dresses in the bright fiery colors of falling leaves while she wearing lace and silk as black and sheer as night beneath. She is pale under it all, not tan, and dances close enough to steal all the warmth from your bones with every brush of her chilling breath and black cherry smile. You are haunted by the sensation that none of this is going to end well.
"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..." Father Tarcino began, his lips moving of their own accord through the prayer he knew so well, he could recite it in his sleep. His fingers moved from his head, down to his heart, and then back up to go sideways, left and right, forming the cross they knew as well as his lips knew their prayer. He knew this day always had a chance of coming. He knew that one could not believe in the Divine without also giving credence to other entities told of in the apocryphal texts and Gospels. He was a priest of the faith, and while for most priests this meant tending their flock, he knew that there were demons of the world beyond poverty, violence and hatred; sins beyond murder and rape. Even the evils of mankind had their inspirations.
Their horrific muses.
Gorgons by another light, who turned the souls of men to stone with a single look; who turned all they saw to gray ash and death. Whose veins pumped with poison, not blood, and who desired nothing but the rape of the natural and rending of the spiritual world. Their lustful ravaging claws would sink into the soft, yielding soil of this existence and pump monstrous seeds of destruction into its fertile plains. The children of these couplings would salt the ground and sow death from the fields, reaping from their harvest with cold showers of blood, strew across the ground like crimson petals.
The movement of the cab through the lanes of New York traffic passed as a dream to Father Tarcino, who was lost in the waking nightmare of his thoughts. Blurrings of light, clouds of steam from below the streets through manhole covers and vents, and the ever constant orchestral accompaniment of horns, cursing, and combustion engines were not enough to rouse him from these apocalyptic visions that now swam before his mind's eye. But when the cabbie hit the brakes in front of the imposing complex of Mercy General, it was as if the whole world had tumbled upon Father Tarcino's shoulders and buried him under the avalanche of what was happening there.
The boundaries had been transgressed before, but not like this; not here, not this way. People--patients, staff, security personnel--they all ran out of the lobby of the hospital into the drop-off and pick-up lanes like the first drops of a breaking dam. Watching the panic and sheer terror upon their faces, Father Giuseppe Tarcino clenched his jaw noticeably as he pulled a ten dollar bill from his vest pocket and handed it to the cabbie without breaking his focus from the spectacle occurring before his eyes. There was no question now; even if he hadn't witnessed what they were running from, he knew that nothing short of a terrorist attack would provoke this kind of reaction. Given the day's events, the possibility of coincidence was dismissed immediately.
Opening the cab door with a resolution and purpose set in his eyes and etched upon his grim features, the Catholic priest stepped out into the flow of the terrified throng and moved upstream toward the source of their fear like a trout making his way through the currents. Several times, these people bumped into him, stopped him, pleading with him to take care of whatever was in there; that only God could help them now, and they begged him to do all he could to make things right. He consoled them in all in calm tones while moving slowly forward. Several floors up, shots rang out, blasting through the windows and sending the shattered glass raining down like glinting angel daggers. Ducking under the overhang of the hospital lobby doors, Father Tarcino pulled an elderly woman away from the shower of glass shards and against him for safety. His lips turned down in a grim frown, he barely heard her thank him with trembling lips.
Moving through the double doors, which remained permanently open due to the number of people pushing to get by them, Giuseppe was comforted by the sight of Christ waiting for him, with a basin of blessed water beneath his feet. Striding up to it, he pulled out a flask from his black coat and filled it up slowly, trying to keep his hands steady. Reaching up with his left hand, he pulled the silver necklace with the cross dangling from it out so that it hung freely down, displayed boldly against the night of his coat. Once the flask was full, he tucked it back into his pocket and withdrew his rosary beads, wrapping them around his right hand tight and kissing them with closed eyes. His left withdrew the one book that would matter in this fight. Crossing himself again, Father Giuseppe heard two more rounds of gunfire in the floors above him, and reopened his eyes.
If the bullets were working, the guns would be silent by now. Pursing his lips, he turned to the reception desk and the three people--two women and one man--working there and asked them a simple, direct question:
"Which floor."
They stopped their flurry of motion for a moment -- swirling into a standstill within the raging torrent of chaos that was flowing recklessly around them.
"Three," the older of the two women responded, her eyes at once relieved and steady in her reply. It was a simple answer. "God bless you, Father," she added in a softer tone.
He smiled softly and then gave her a nod, whispering a word of thanks and blessing each of them. Then he turned to the elevator doors that just opened, his feet already moving towards them with a purpose.
"Going up," he said to no one in particular. No one was headed that way.
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