I have a mini-calendar on my desk with a rather odd picture for October. At first glance you think to yourself...now look at that, a bunch of Autumn leaves. You smile, dip briefly into that cool, crisp land of Fall and then continue to email. That is how it goes with first glances. But once you look again you shake your head and think...now am I imagining this or do those happy Autumn leaves look like they have chicken pox? I'm not kidding. These leaves are really weird. Maybe some artist was trying to be artsy with leaves and glue and flour, but now it's looking like these leaves have been under a crusty old log for some time wasting away. They should have stayed beneath that log instead of seeking fame through photography.

Fall should be a pleasant death. A slow pale-ing, a silent shiver, with a few colorful dolls around. Like in Little Women when Jo turns to see the curtains sway in the chilly breeze and turns back to see that Beth has died. That's the Fall that eases me into winter. Resolved sadness. These leaves from my calendar, on the other hand, are just the dirty tissue piles and the empty toilet paper roll that remind me of the constant maintenance and striving for something that won't last anyway. Mindfully forgotten. My pictured Fall comes with leaves of momentary purpose that don't mind the nonsense of simply vanishing into memory with the next windy gust. But which really last?