It’s not like I didn’t see it coming.
But still. I was shocked.
Fall! Every year, it shows up, oh, around this time. And we in the intemperate climes are accustomed to it. From hearty, pioneering stock, we embrace these temperature swings: it gives us something to complain about year-round, gives us a sense of pride regarding a wardrobe that accommodates a 140-degree temperature swing, provides us with a street-side view of the seasonal migratory patterns of the roof-less.
Every year we watch summer depart, watch the leaves turn and talk about transitions, about phases of life.
When I left this morning, the deck was clear.
And now this.
What does one do with third-floor leaves? What is my third-floor obligation here? Do I bag them? Do I hope they blow away?
Do I shovel them over the side and let the first-floor people deal with them?
It’s Tuesday, and this is what I’m dealing with.
And to think: I saw it coming.