I agree with Anne Shirley. I love living in a world where there are Octobers.

It catches me off guard, driving as if the destination is more worthy than the effort to get there. Yet, even as truncated as most of my commutes are, the trees beckon my attention with their wordless show of color. The spread of gold is visible even from as recently as this morning. What surprises me is that I continue to be surprised. 

I wish I could ask the trunk how she feels about the change. Does it tingle, as the chlorophyll slips down from the tips of branches, and seeps out through the roots? Someone told me that the vibrant hues are there all along, but it is only when that green agent takes its leave that they get a chance to celebrate. Sort of like understudies, waiting hopefully for their big break. 

Sadly, though, the show is ending soon, and their flamboyant performance is short-lived. Then in a flutter of quiet applause, the oak and redbud hearts ripple to the ground and are left like forgotten leaflets on the theater floor. 

To witness change as a visible transformation suggests to me that perhaps, I too, can be brave. That conversation I am timid about, the one that includes an apology, can actually change how I see myself. When the self consciousness drains out of me, courage is left behind like scarlet branches.