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When I was young, I begged my grandfather to tell me secrets - reasons why things are the way they are. He would tell me about the sprites that ride down from the sky in every raindrop, and the nymphs that paint every single flower such vibrant colors, but one day, he told me perhaps the most inspiring secret of all, the one I hope is true to this day. Every year, Autumn dances. She leaps in the breezes blowing summer out, her auburn hair whipping around her face. With her slightest touch, leaves join her frenzy, rustling as they catch the fire of fall, their green hues licked away by her brightly burning spirit. At this time she never stops dancing, the breezes never stop blowing, and the landscape is never barren of trees for her to brush with flame. She does not think of yesterday, when Summer waltzed through the sick-sweet air, or tomorrow, when Winter will whirl every snowflake around in a terminal tango. The only thing that matters is her dance, as the winds keep tossing her for another ride to the tips of the trees, another vivacious spin. When the breezes blow colder her movements begin to change. No longer so flamboyant with summer's warmth, she retains her grace, but now she need not bound so high, need not touch the highest leaves. The leaves all burn now, and the wind no longer needs her work. It alone whips the leaves from the trees. It sudden chill adds an urgency, a haste to her movements; now she can think beyond the dance, and knows that if she stops she will only join the leaves. She knows she must carry on, must complete her turn. If anything, she twirls faster, though lower. Winter gusts, already smelling of snow and ice, begin to mix with the lively fall winds, and slowly her brilliant auburn hair begins to fade. She makes each leap with more and more effort, the strength in her legs beginning to wither like the leaves. And then, one fateful day, there is no more vibrancy in the wind, no more chill, just one lonesome dancer. Autumn spins herself now, with nothing left in the wind to push her. She carries on despite her weariness, dancing her finale with all the energy she still possesses, until her fingers gently touch another hand, one that is cold and welcoming. Slowly, as the hand and its arm curl her into his full embrace, Autumn looks into Winter's eyes. There she finds relief from her struggle; she knows that he has been waiting patiently for her, and even as she moves to huddle closer to her savior, her body withers entirely, and she, like the leaves, is blown away by the wind, leaving winter in the lead of the seasons' dance. My grandfather told me about all the seasons that day, and he described all their dances, but Autumn's rhythm always beat with my heart. When Autumn blows out the sick-sweet air of Summer, I, too, am tossed around, if not by wind, then by the sheer euphoria of twirling. Perhaps I was meant to be born a leaf. Caera | |