This is the time of year that makes my heart soar. Autumn colors, the lowering angle of light, the clear dry air, all elicit elation. Searing reds, oranges, and yellows set off by stunningly brilliant blue skies. It is exquisite, almost painfully so.

Manic highs, feelings of almost bursting with joy as I look out my kitchen window at the turning leaves of the oakleaf hydrangea, tartly cerise. The sunlight dappling through the lemony yellow—oh, tartness again!—of the hickory leaves, the fully saturated orange brilliance of the maples. This is my time of year; I exult in every aspect. The mania becomes almost unbearable. I think I may fly into a million pieces.

Then, quickly, abruptly, suddenly, I crash to the depths of despair. I miss him. I want to share all of fall’s beauty with him, as we used to, driving—no, sailing—down backcountry roads of West Virginia, falling leaves wafting through the open sunroof as we kicked up a trail of every hue of red, yellow, and orange in our wake.

I want him back.

Halloween was the day we faced the music, said no to offers of more treatment, said we’d had enough. He was gone by the new year. So, this time of autumn is fraught. The exquisite beauty juxtaposed with grim finality. Highs and lows. Reminders of the glorious times now all mixed up with memories of facing the end. Bittersweet, the season that for so many years was a highlight, a shared passion. I am astonished by the jerk from glory to despair, and back again. The pain is deep, just as the awe is expansive. Someone once suggested to me that exhilaration and profound sadness are closely linked; the intensities of each are similar. This seems to be so. I am feeling it all, have even come to embrace the waves of emotion and welcome the richness. I am learning, slowly, to accept change, impermanence. This is life. This is autumn.

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