Maybe I bring it upon myself.

This feeling of aloneness in my own home.

I listen and listen and listen and retreat and retreat and retreat.

The leaves fall slowly, one by one. There is still so much green. It gives and gives of itself to the ground beneath; a carpet of rustling colour. Yet it still looks so alive and beautiful in the sun. Shades of green mingled with fiery red and bright yellow. But I know in a few short weeks the last leaf will fall. And it will be empty. Dormant. Stark. Cold. Unable to give anymore.

My leaves fall slowly as I engage. Asking, probing, listening, giving.

And as the sun starts to reflect off the green that is left, I feel isolated and disconnected. My child close to my chest. The rest of the household metres away. But far away. So far away from me.

There is beauty in this giving. Beauty in the shedding. Beauty in the hope of new life after this season.

And a quiet whisper tells me I am seen and known.

And reminds me gently that dying is a part of the New Life.


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