I remove the sea lavender from the wreath on the door and replace it with autumn leaves. I think about Falling, about the bittersweet of September. Winter. Summer. Spring. And Fall.
I think of the asymmetrical life I have lived, of the fifth season in Oriental medicine, the in between time. I think of all the people I have ever been, of the suit my father plans to be buried in, specks of life I can neither embrace, nor dispel. I think of mail box flags along country roads.