Autumn Hues

September 14^th, 2019

She trailed her hands on the light carried by the wind; at times it caught the dark streaks of her hair, mimicking iridescence. Today she held earthly colors in her being: shades of burnt coffee and fallen leaves made up the blush in her cheeks, the wisps of her dress. By habit I had the urge to call out to her, to lay her down and bury myself in the softness of her honey eyes, letting them feed my soul with their sweetness – instead I remained against the rough edges of the doorframe, not letting the little pricks of splinters pull away my attention from Autumn.

I continued watching her, the way she seemed to hold light in the very palms of her hands. I couldn’t waste a second - I had to burn this memory into my heart, add it to my collection. If one day, she’s gone again, my heart would continue beating - but only to circulate the memories of her, images of fluttering hands and soft smiles; the colour of her voice, soothing as the rain.

I never let myself think like that – and yet, the little voice still breathes in the back of my mind, reminding me how everyone had told me I was crossing the line, that bringing her back was a mistake; I must admit, mine was an unpopular choice. People warned me: they said my heart would just be shattered twice-over. However, my heart had never felt more joyous. Perhaps I am just naïve; but as the sun’s rays danced on the sparkling tiles of early frost, I felt that it must be this way, that this second chance was a gift. I had to accept it.

Soft soles shuffled across the tiles behind me, followed by a clumsy arm wrapping itself around my leg, holding me tightly; a welcome substitute for ‘good morning’. A few sleepy moments later, Ainsley left my side in one languid motion; a wave pulling back from the shore, once more joining the flow of the Sunday morning routines. She was only six when Autumn came back. Too young to understand.

Ainsley parted the air with a grace she could only inherit from her mother, despite the childish clumsiness with which she flopped down onto a seat at the dining room table, absorbing the sunlight like a cat in winter. The glow framed half her face in shadow, while the other half glittered in the light; she seemed paler than usual, seeking out the warmth of the sun. Her messy hair (which had endured days of tree-climbing and dog-chasing) had not yet been tamed by a brush – not that it mattered. She was young and free, and the spirit of adventure spoiled her endlessly, to the point of exhaustion.

Leaving the garden, Autumn came inside and took a place next to Ainsley as I scuttled about to make breakfast; She ran her hands through Ainsley’s cascading curls – the movement of her sleek, oaken fingers encapsulated me; the motherly essence of her touch, a timeless sensation. The silence between them was not to be misinterpreted: it held them closer.

As the smell of pancakes and dripping golden syrup wafted in the air, I could hear Ainsley breathing heavily over the sizzle of batter – with slightly more effort than usual. I could see the concern in Autumn’s eyes, and the way her mouth relentlessly fought just to smile. Autumn’s eyes caught mine for just a second, and in that miniscule eternity she told me a million things, all relating to the same conclusion.

“No,” I told her, “Don’t think like that.”

But perhaps I was just trying to convince myself.

Ainsley said she could hear the way nature called for her, and within minutes of hasty eating she was out and about, fluttering amongst the trees.

A moment later, Autumn curled up to me, resigning her head of soft warmth to my shoulder. When she spoke, it was barely a whisper, as light as the fall breeze.

“Did you see how pale she looked today?”

October 9th, 2019

It was our second trip to the hospital.

Dawn bit us this morning with the reluctant realisation that today had indeed come, despite our hopes, despite the romance novels that depicted happy-ever-after's and the smiles that promised so much more than translucent kisses and faded shadows.

Autumn had blended in with the sunrise as she sat facing away from the dining room window: a brilliant blend melted gold and a hush of blue overlay, mimicking the bitter shadow of the coming cold. She played with the dust hanging in the air, watching it fall around her; her eyes remained the same ever since the day she died, still vivacious – yet today they seemed downcast, glazed with the same blue that reflected off of the rest of her body; her lips twitched, too uncertain of herself to speak.

I made coffee, and sat down next to her.

“You can’t deny it, Joe. She’s getting worse and you know it.”

“Good morning to you too, Autumn.”

She curled and uncurled her hand, over and over again.

“You knew this was going to happen, how couldn’t you?”

“She’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

A sudden dazed look had come about her, draping her face in a grey shawl. She moved as though the wind was whisking her away, a passing blur of colours leaving the house. The season hinted change, an iciness in the breeze promised winter.  

The chill remained, slightly thawed, yet hung gloomily in the air as Ainsley and I walked towards the pristine glass doors of the hospital. She held my hand too tight, too frigidly; she’s scared – I am too.

December 27^th, 2019

Last night, we watched the snow fall with a slowed grace as we rushed Ainsley to the hospital. We chased the nurses as they rushed her down corridors to the paediatric department, our thoughts stunned by the dazzling lights and disappointed eyes of bystanders as they noticed Autumn, the soul I chose to bring back, fully coated in a layer of darkened greys. They saw my situation better than I did; I still believed behind the clouds was a sun so bright, a sun that would melt the snow, a sun we had become so accustomed to. I begged for its warmth to come back as I watched Ainsley lie unconscious, hooked up to a plethora of wires. The snow continued to fall.

Sleeping in the hospital had grasped my thoughts and doused them in memories: the relentless beeping of silver machines, the merciless chatter of nurses, an ambience of discomfort amongst the bleaching lights above; I can still remember Autumn’s eyes, glazed in the grey of the Grim Reaper. I remember the way I ran as though in a dream, sprinting in dense mercury, just to get to Autumn. I remember the nurse playing with Ainsley, keeping her company amidst the loneliness of the hospital; her unsympathetically disappointed expression after hearing my decision; she must have known my choice set off a timer; a timer I didn’t hear ticking these past few years – a ticking I didn’t want to hear. I had wept, stuttering; I believed I had saved her– but I hadn’t saved anyone.

My eyes didn’t leave Ainsley; I analysed her breathing patterns, the paleness of her skin.

Wind began to pick up outside, whirling against the windows; the echoes of my naivete. Autumn was beside Ainsley, crying tears that disappeared as soon as they left her cheek, becoming air once more.

We sat in silence, exchanging looks every few minutes; we couldn’t speak. We walked along the cracks of a frozen lake, too scared our voices will break the few millimetres between safety and drowning. I knew what Autumn wanted to say; but instead, we listened to the wind: wailing, dragging along snow, laying a jacket for the cold earth.

January 4^th, 2020

Ainsley’s bed grew colder. The chair I had resigned myself to every night grew stiffer; Autumn grew more rigid, as if her willowed skin was slowly morphing into stone. She had not spoken to me in days, perhaps to spare me from the truth I was too scared to acknowledge – stepping away to reduce the pressure on our icy lake, protecting me from the plunge under the cracks.

My daughter appeared to crumble before my eyes, cracking underneath her very skin. Hurricanes in my mind howled relentlessly: “You did this. You killed her.”

Part of me didn’t want to believe what my decision had come to; so many years, so many flurries of snow-days and picnics, so many undeserved moments with Autumn – at the expense of Ainsley. I didn’t know it then (or maybe I did), I thought I had done the right thing. However, as the snow entrapped us in its unsympathetic arms, closing us in the bleak world of antiseptic and mourning, I realised:

 I am once more faced with a choice: a choice I had believed I would only make once.

The crash only registered in my mind a moment later.

The clatter bounced off the floors and the walls and the roof and ricochet in my head, ringing with distress: the doctors rushed in, and recognised me in an instant.

They knew.

Autumn left Ainsley’s side in silence. She stepped toward me as the doctor’s crowded around her, fixing the fallen oxygen regulator. Every step she took towards me was a second closer to the words I had been dreading to hear: every step cracked the ice between me and the lake, the depths I had been treading above so lightly, for so long.

My eyes could only focus on the grey outside, the way the world seemed trapped in ice; how the sun filtered through the clouds, casting a raindrop hue on the hospital floor.

“Joe,”

I could feel water seeping into my shoes as she stepped closer.

“You have to make the right decision.”

I knew the consequences of bringing a soul back; one had to be returned.

I didn’t think that soul would belong to my daughter.

Vehement chatter from the doctors ceased – one looked at me, and her eyes locked with mine; I remember her, the doctor who first took care of Autumn, after her car crash. She recognised me, and with a single look she told me what I had been denying for so long. Her voice broke through, shaking my whole being:

“You have to choose now.”

And with that, the few millimetres of ice that held me aloft broke, and I plummeted into the suffocating darkness; with my drowning breath, I let her go.

January 8^th, 2020

The hospital had done its best to fight the swarming cold outside – yet it still snuck in through cracks, seeping into our bones. The wind, however, had died down; the sun threaded its way through the clouds, a misty halo. I waited at reception, and when she finally came, we walked out of the winter that had been burying us; the breeze swept her hair up, a fragrant wisp of air after the sickening antiseptic.

A few metres ahead, the sun pushed the clouds apart, and hung its light on the air; it illuminated the sidewalk, melting the snow; as she held my hand, we approached the first colours we had seen in weeks: radiant oranges and yellows, dashed in brown and reflecting the oak darkness of the tree’s trunk; the leaves had remained all throughout the peak of this winter, hanging in feathery masses of tainted gold.

We took our time admiring it, and as we entered the speckled shade that fell so lightly on the sidewalk, they fell: all the leaves floated down around us, swirling from the branches as though they danced with the air; brilliant blends of ground coffee and yellow desert grass landed all around us – and amidst all the vibrance, Ainsley gripped my hand tighter.

She knew.