There is a chill in the air. Autumn culls the trees of their leaves, but it kindles more than logs in a stove. A jacket hangs in the closet. It has been with me since I was in high school.
A spring break trip to London had the Manchester City windbreaker as a souvenir. The gloves were not nearly as old.
On a winter trip to meet her parents, I underestimated the transition in weather from New Mexico to Montana.
As my fingers fought the cold on the gas pump, she ran into the store and returned with a pair of $2 work gloves. The boots I found at a surplus store.
I don’t remember why I went, but I liked the boots. The hat was one she made in one of her night classes. I don’t like the Cardinals, but the red and white keep my ears from stinging in the wind.
I open the door as the stiff breeze pummels my exposed neck. I retreat back to the closet. The closet has a stack of boxes in the rear.
It is filled with pumps and purses, things I certainly don’t need but cannot bear to toss. At last, I find a length of red wool. A deep breath and I wrap it around the exposed area. Breathe out.
Again to the door, nearly forgetting to grab the flowers from the table. Has it really been a full year? The door closes and it is just me, wrapped in memories.
A sudden gust lifts one end of the scarf into my face. It still smells of her. Autumn sends to the ground below more than just leaves.