AUTUMN’S LEAVE

By Brandi Beck

I remember she smelled of morning rain and wool and tasted of hot apple cider. She cooed with the morning dove and bellowed in the afternoon thunder. She was provocative and unpredictable. She was bright and vivacious then suddenly dark and vicious. When she was giddy and lost in her own strength, she was dangerous. She took me to the edge to dance naked along the brink and sometimes she threatened to push. She devoured part of my soul.

It was sophomore year when I first noticed her, blowing into the stands during a practice scrimmage. The air was full of her, fresh and cool, sweeping in from the coast. My gangly freshman legs were gone and, finally, my feet moved the way I told them to. Practice was good. Damn good. I sweated. I blocked. I ran. I sweated. I passed. I tackled. I sweated. My chest threatened to rip itself open. And I smiled. All the while, she watched.

I felt her in the hot sun at the back of my neck and in the breeze that blew cold on the sweat on my face. I smelled her in the mixing of jerseys and grass and tasted her in the corner of my mouth after a hit. I filled my lungs with her and was high. It exhilarated me. It confused me. It caught me off balance and I was tackled instantly. Flat on my back I squinted against the sun and watched a perfect V of Canada geese honk its way south.

In the showers, I shook off the dizziness and what was left of her in my hair. I was tingling with adrenaline. I was invincible. Bruised and limping, but a god nonetheless. Snapping my towel in triumph, I congratulated myself in the mirror. I grabbed my stuff and headed into the late afternoon sun. And there she was, rubbing herself all over my jacket, blowing kisses in my ear, making my skin hum. She followed me home, giggling as I crunched through piles of leaves, then pouting when I brushed her off for few rounds of hoops with the guys.

During the season, she hung around the field, hiding in the trees or skipping through the stands. At first, I ignored her, played it cool, hard to get. She was a kaleidoscope of color; burning orange, sizzling red. She was bold and defiant, flirty, gutsy. She made me burn with simple desire and I found myself ducking early morning science classes to race along the river with her and stretch out on its banks to draw cloud art in the October sky. I’d park Dad’s Olds at the peak to watch her dance in the morning rain. I started taking long the way home after practice just to kick up leaves with her in the park.

She lingered until the first heavy snow, then went the way of all seasonal tenants on the cape. There were no goodbyes and it was in an ice-packed snowball to the forehead that I realized I missed her. When I looked into the sky it was gray, dull, boring. Hockey briefly assuaged my despair. When lovely Summer strolled into town and heated things up, I sought solace on bikini-clad beaches and at drive-in horror movies.

The first day of junior year, I walked onto the field and took a fast pass into my gut. I rolled the ball in my hands, kneading it, and I felt a familiar tug. The sky was a shiny, china blue and the trees behind the stands waved their colors like a firey banner. She was there. In a rush of relief and excitement I charged the tackling dummy and felt the power return.

We became inseparable that year. She was my private cheerleader and never missed a game. As long as she was there, as long as she favored me, I was a star.

She was incorrigible and lusty. She thrived on provoking me and often blew young girls in my path, spilling books to gather, heads to knock, lips to ogle. She encouraged me. She dared me. And when I capitulated, she whispered her approval through the mist rising on the water.

She was there when I first met Jenny outside the library, approving of her with the soft click of cricket song. She coaxed me into my first kiss, whispering words of encouragement from behind the porch swing. And she was there the night I had Jenny in the field behind the stadium, watching me, following my every move, a voyeur in the stands, hissing cheers into the wind. I swear I heard her moan as I found release in a woman for the first time.

She was there when I scored against State and beat the all time record for rushes. Calling my name from the sideline, loud and determined, she rahhed and ahhed me up and down the field, collapsing with me in the end zone.

Before I knew it, the season ended. She disappeared in an unexpected blizzard. I never strapped on my skates all winter. Suddenly, I found myself courting Summer in a red Camaro, but with less abandon than a year ago. I itched for senior year.

She returned with a wild certainty and intent I hadn’t known before. She could be soft and tender in the morning and quickly turn dark and brooding by dinner. She flew into rages without provocation. Her voice crackled with lightening and thunder. Sometimes I would sit up with her all night parked out on the point and watch her storm.

I heard her laughter smacking in the homecoming bonfire and tasted her in the whiskey and each smoke-filled breath. I envisioned her outline in the mist my breath formed as I blew deep from my diaphragm. I adored her. I craved her.

I cherished her offerings of perfectly crimson leaves delivered to my window on a wisp of a breeze. I thrilled at the sight of her, the smell of her, to feel her steal up behind me and run her cool breath along the back of my neck. She crawled inside me, burning, a part of me.

She was there when my father died, tossing gold commemorative leaves onto his casket and wrapping me in a cold, gray blanket. I tried to push her away. But she pushed back with icy hands and a low growl in my ear that told me she would stay at my side. I was grateful for the cold stinging slap on my face. It gave me focus, clarity. I swore. She roared. I cried. She wailed. I yelled. She screeched. Together we drove out the anger and harnessed the pain.

She did not force, did not expect. Only let me be and become the man I was to be. She did not form me or mold me, direct me or dictate. She challenged me. She lured me into manhood. She chased me into adulthood. And in the fast-passing years of college, somewhere, I lost her. I found myself staring out windows, sitting in empty stands. Aching for her. With my eyes closed, I’d tilt my head to the wind trying to breathe her back into my life.

Now I watch my son slip out of bed early in the mornings to walk with her. I can see it in his eyes as he opens the door, hikes up his collar and stares off into the sky with a passion I can almost feel again. His step is lively but no longer the bouncy walk of youth. It is the gait of a young man finding his stride. It is the step of confidence and passion. With envy, I watch my son step out into Autumn’s arms and I remember her.

I grab my coat and step outside with hope. Does she remember me?