And then suddenly it’s November, and the foliage is flattening to gray, the tamaracks beginning to burn their golden torch flames. Like a memory, the bones of trees appear again – oh, branches have been under your leaves all summer. In an odd way, it’s an incredibly graceful time of year.
Maples often shed from the top down, so the tiptoe branches are stritching against the sky, while the lower limbs are yet golden, barely rust-speckled.
I thought of these trees, half in one season, half in another, when my daughter was loonily recovering from a tooth extraction. I couldn’t resist asking, when she was cloudy and laughing, Are you grown up?
Just recently, she insisted that, since she’s no longer a minor, she’s an adult.
But yesterday, cloudy with anesthesia, she revealed that she’s not wholly, entirely, all grown up.
One foot in, with her long legs stretching, she’s far more in the adult world than the lingering tatters of her childhood, but yet….