The Last Rosebuds

September 27, 2022

My husband clipped the last rosebuds of the season at our house on Cape Cod. They are pale yellow, long, and extremely slender. Reminding me of opera divas, they struggle to hold up their heads, barely alive, singing their last aria. We pack them up and carry them back to the city. We hope they will unfold in a jar of warm water despite their fragility. Maybe they will last a night.

On the car ride home, we note the vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows of vanguard maples. They stand out brightly from the deep dull of evergreens. Not quite leaf season yet, but it is coming.

New England autumns are singular. I grew up in New Jersey. The leaves changed there, too but not with the blast-to-your-senses that marks October in the north. The color is so intense that it vibrates at the back of your eyeballs. Crazy!

It’s cliché, I know, to write about autumn. Who hasn’t? Who hasn’t been stretched to describe the deep emotionalism of the season? Just as spring seems like a miracle after endless March snow storms, fall is a shock and surprise. The sense of impending loss is palpable in the cool air and dry rustle of leaves on the browning lawn. We have only just dusted off sun hats and put the kayak in the water. Times up? Can’t be yet.

Yet, autumn is a visual wonder. My son notes;

“You look around and get this melancholy feeling because you know that beauty won’t last. Very moving. Probably the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Beauty and destruction are all wound together. Believing in a future as the past slips inexorably. This poignancy is a gift. Acceptance. Gratitude. Faith. All gifts.