Playing with the gift of time in November

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Disclaimer
This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions.

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“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different?”
C.S. Lewis

. . .

I chase after time as desperately as I chased the falling maple leaves in my backyard as a child. This tree began as a sapling that my great-grandfather planted in 1957. It grew into my home’s stoic shelter. Its winding branches slowly breached the barriers of my neighbors’ yards. For decades, it was the largest tree on the block. We, my grandparents and parents, never tapped sap from it. I don’t know why. However, the grand Maple selflessly offered other seasonal gifts. Its branches gifted shade in the summer for patio cookouts. Its trunk and roots served as first base in fourth-of-July wiffle ball tournaments. The fly balls my cousin and I hit into the Maple’s outstretched arms were always returned. 

Every autumn, our strong and playful Maple tree released thousands of amber yellow leaves. They fell in bursts and trickles, swirling in the same formation as their helicopter-shaped seeds in the crisp wind. As a little girl, I accepted this invitation wearing a purple fleece jacket, jeans, and thick-toed Keen shoes. I sprinted from one side of the yard to the other. I circled the tree countless times, chasing the leaves as they spiraled down. I giggled in delight as I dove for my next amber gift. The leaves slipped through my fingers every time. It appeared the Maple would win the game.

But I tied the score when it was time to rake the leaves. Mom and Dad would divide and conquer the yard, piling the yellows into vibrant piles that burned like fire under a clear sky. 

Then came my favorite part. My parents gestured me to the starting line across the yard. They put a stray stick down on the lawn in front of the aisle of arborvitae evergreen bushes that shaded pesky weeds Mom pulled every humid summer. I lined my feet up behind the stick and bent my knees as I had seen Olympic track runners do. I imagined the cartoon cloud of dust building up around me as I revved myself up for the sprint. The sun broke through the maple’s apertures and illuminated my path. 

“Ready, set, go!” my parents announced. I skipped with glee on the first step before gaining my footing. I ran into the fire with a blazing smile on my face.

I flung my arms around the pile, squeezing the leaves close to smell the dirt and wet grass. The stems poked through the fleece that covered my arms. The pointed edges gently tickled my neck. Mom and Dad joined me, throwing up the leaves above my head, so I had another chance to catch them. I caught some leaves that time. Others got caught in my short platinum blond hair. The stems were braided together to form a crown. I felt like an autumn princess. I was the champion. 

I am determined to capture one more amber leaf — one more memory. Each one has its storyline written out in the venation. The beginning, middle, and end are plotted in its patterned veins. So each reunion that falls through, each cancellation is a potential memory slipping through my fingers. It is a loss of something I never possessed. When I was little, I brushed off the loss of a leaf. But now, I mourn the loss of potential. 

Playing with time is a game. Unlike leaves, time will never stop, drop, and pile at my feet. It is forever moving. Time offers a continuous chase. Well, that is until the time is up. I am worried that I will run in circles, chasing memories until it is too late. 
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