Dear my precious autumn

It's late in autumn as a cold breeze passes through my frame, my hand reaching towards the setting sun as if trying to cling to the last bit of summer.

A small hand reached mine to hold it. "Let's go home," she said, standing beside me. I looked at my side and found her eyes reflecting the melancholic trees in front of us. The amber leaves blend perfectly with her iris as if she had her own little world inside her eyes.

"You've always liked autumn, don't you?" I asked. She seems puzzled at first before nodding in agreement. Our hands intertwined as it hid behind our coat like a little secret only for us to witness.

Her eyes dropped down into the ground, watching the leaves fall. Behind us, children run around the park. Somewhere a dog is barking. Wind swept through, bidding the leaves a goodbye as it waved back for the last time. "What do you feel now that it's almost over? The autumn. Does it make you sad?"

Briefly, her hand squeezes mine as if trying to ground on something. "Yeah ... a little bit. But, I think … I'm fine. Because, I like autumn for its impermanence. The fact that we can only enjoy it for a specific time only, each year, is what makes it precious. But, I guess it applies to any other season too." She chuckled nervously at the end.

“Maybe, but other seasons don't witness us like autumn does. It has heard our whispers of love under the blanket. It has always been the background in our photograph. It is the season where we declare our love.”

For others it may be the season of endings, but for us, it's the beginning.