For the ones who grew up most or all of their childhood without a dad, I hear you.
For the ones who spent every weekend at the cemetery as a kid, I feel you.
For the ones only recently coping with grief, I won’t lie to you and say it gets easier but it does become bearable.
This one is for the fathers taken before their time, before we were ready, the ones who aren’t with us today, for the kids still grieving, for the ones whose lives are just that little bit incomplete. You’re not alone.
Autumn is melancholic. It signals the death of nature in the most beautiful colours, with one last burst of vibrance. That’s why I like autumn. The natural world around us shows its temporal existence. Nothing lasts forever. Perhaps it’s that engrained sense of loss within that feels at home in autumn since childhood.
This is the season of truth.
Loyal to melancholy’s disposition, autumn is a paradox. Beautifying death, adorning nature with it’s make-up of colours. Preserving it in memory, like a heart wrenching funeral.
Autumn is chaos. The season of change. It’s odd for a person so scared of change to feel so comfortable in this season of transition. After all change can be a good thing, I have resolved to tackle my fear head on, hoping the wind favours my direction and sailing ahead.
“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird, I would fly about the Earth seeking successive autumns.” – George Elliot