I knew it would happen. Some things are as predictable as mosquitoes in June. The leaves that wave to me as I drive up the road have begun their annual riot of color. 

It starts subtly, as gradually as the tide when you first step into the ocean. Perhaps there are reasons why some trees begin the chameleon effect before others. Is it because they are paying attention? Or drew a low number? Maybe aspens are more reluctant to don yellow instead of green, like a five year old resisting pajamas at bedtime.  Surely the trees understand on some level that autumn means closing their eyes, and hibernating. 

It could be that Nature simply wants them to take turns. A conductor gives the violins a chance to fill the hall, then nods his gray head to the baritones to play. As they finish, he points his baton toward the flutes and they burst like a flock of birds refusing to be caught. When different branches full of color call to me in sequence I can better absorb their beauty.

Change is as embedded in marriage as the seasons are in the calendar. I suppose one could chase the sun, and leave fall, and winter, and spring behind. But continual escape into tomorrow leaves no time for roots. Or buds. Or fruit.  

John has been using a crutch for over a month now. His knee is reticent to heal, and the support helps him get through the day. Hearing the click step as he comes in the back door at dusk is a change from last summer when his legs behaved. It is not permanent, any more than October is. 

But it does make me mindful of the changes that are inevitable in our fourth decade together.