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The Season Is Changing

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Life is fluid like a mountain stream. We desperately try to make it more like the river stones over which the water flows—smooth and stable, but our attempts are feeble. Life continues; unstoppable. The seasons change, and I feel the change coming now.

It’s now cool in the mornings, cool enough for a sweatshirt. I see some yellow leaves popping up on a nearby tree. My summer zinnias are looking weary of blooming. A change is coming.

My dad is walking quite a bit slower these days. My youngest son is dreaming of the deep voice we expect will arrive any week now. My oldest has his eyes set toward college, and he spent last weekend out-of-town hunting with a buddy—no adults. Wow. What a far place from watching him ride away on his training wheeled bike—out of my reach where if he fell I wouldn’t be able to catch him. I remember being afraid that day because I could see him, but I couldn’t touch him. Kinda like a mama bird watching from a distance as her baby bird flies. I know training wheels aren’t like flying, but it seemed so extreme and risky at the time. Would he remember to look for cars as he had been taught?

The season is changing. In a blink there will be one, maybe two less plates at the Thanksgiving table. Just a few turns of the calendar pages and my hunter won’t be leaving his stinky socks in the bathroom, in the hallway, on his bedroom floor.

Life is flowing swiftly. Time truly waits for no man. Today I won’t be who I was yesterday. Every glance in the morning mirror reflects a wrinkle that wasn’t quite there the day before. The season is changing, and, like a mountain stream, the season’s change can not be stopped.

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