Here we are again, entering the season that reminds me most of us. After all, it’s where we began.

Two years ago we met at the Farmer’s Market—strolling side by side, sifting through stone fruit, squashes, and shishitos. We sampled apple slices and homemade bone broth, while lingering in conversation about the books we were reading, the work that occupied our days, the meals that nourished us this time of year, and the ways we filled our free time.

As I sip my morning coffee today, I return to those moments with fondness. How I longed for us to do it all again this year.

Fast forward to now: a cool, moody morning. The back door slides open and closed—Clydie darting in and out, Ezra curled up nearby. I wake slowly in my rocking chair, devotion and meditation in hand, though my mind wanders. I can’t help but drift to thoughts of you—where you are, who you’re with—and the ache of asking why you no longer cared for us.

Fall is our season.
Fall is chanterelle foraging.
Fall is when you became my Foraging Fellow.
Fall is your flannel, wishing it still hung by the back door, waiting for your return.
Fall is cabbage soup season.
Fall is Grandpa Don’s vest.
Fall is slow walks to Lauretta Jean’s, under the canopy of changing leaves.

But Fall never lingers. 

It comes and goes too quickly—perhaps, just like us. 

Two years, gone in a breath. Our time, short-lived yet brimming with adventure, memory, and meaning.

And now, on this First Day of Fall, 2025, we move through the season apart—by ourselves, for ourselves, once again.