And Every Day a Little Closer

The leaves spiral earthbound through the air, enveloping them in a warm shower of scarlet and auburn, lurid and crimson. It’s been a dry autumn, something that bears little significance to eight-year-old Gwen beyond the fact that it means the foliage still gives a satisfying crunch when trod upon. And of course the extra bit of warmth means she hasn’t been forced to throw a sweater on over her costume, something that always puts her in a foul mood.

Of all the seasons autumn is the most transient, forever having its toes stepped on by its successor. Its very essence is that of change, of progression, of decay. The passage of time is hardest to ignore when sitting in an hourglass.

A knock on the door, two steps back. Wait until it opens. Trick or treat! The bag is held out, candy is deposited. Sometimes you have to act cutesy, sometimes you have to endure small talk or unnecessary questions. The most common: And what are you supposed to be? She’s a witch; that much is obvious. They just want to hear her say it, to exclaim it proudly and adorably. At eight years old Gwen is already showing signs of the cynical, darkly intelligent young woman she will soon become. Her parents see it; they aren’t sure if this is something they should be worried about. She’s eight years old, her mother tells her father. Whether this is meant to be a consolation or a warning isn’t clear to either of them.

It’s an illusion, of course. Observation, even obsessive, has no effect on how slowly or quickly time passes – at least not beyond perspective. If winter began with one massive snowfall that gradually melted away until spring it would feel just as fleeting. Instead it comes and goes in waves, as if time were tangible, brought to a sluggish crawl by the cold and barren stillness.

There’s a house at the end of the road, a sad and deplorable mess of splintered wood, peeling paint and loose shingles. As they approach it Gwen’s father nudges her mother. Looks like someone went all-out on Halloween decorations, he says. She rolls her eyes, knows he’s been waiting all year to make that joke. The woman who owns it has been around longer than anyone in the area can remember. Keeps to herself, rarely seen out and about. But this is a nice neighborhood, a good neighborhood, and Gwen’s parents aren’t the type to turn their noses up. Go on honey, her mom says, nudging her forward. Go on.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. And around again. A cycle, you’d be forgiven for thinking. But it’s not, is it? Only to the extent that water circling a drain is a cycle. Can a leaf falling through the air be considered flying? The term implies permanence, or even just temporary stability. A downward spiral may take its time, but it never detours from the final destination.

Gwen ascends the rickety wooden stairs. One, two, three, four. A porch, just as deteriorated. Time has not been kind to this house. Time has not been kind to you, says the newborn to the elder. How blissfully unaware we are of the limits of our perspectives. She knocks on the wooden door, steps away. A backwards glance at her parents on the sidewalk, who send her looks of encouragement. The door swings open and a woman stands before her. She has a kind yet morose face. Younger than Gwen was expecting, for whatever reason. The woman says nothing, only looks down at her with that small, sad smile. Feeling the need to break the silence, Gwen opens her mouth. I’m a witch! she proclaims as adorably as she can. The smile grows larger but not much happier. So you are, she replies, stooping to her level. Would you like to know a secret? The woman leans in close, putting her lips to Gwen’s ear. So am I.

A bug which spends its whole life in someone’s garden believes it to be the extent of the world – or it would, had it the capacity to conceptualize. Who are we to say it is wrong, if indeed it never sees beyond its borders? What difference does it make to the creature who cannot see its life from a distance?

Gwen eyes the woman dubiously. You don’t look like a witch. Where’s your costume? The woman titters. States of being should not be measured – not unless you’re willing to give equal weight to the negative. Gwen tilts her head, thoroughly perplexed, and the woman retrieves a small pouch from her pocket. Shall I demonstrate? Thumb and forefinger venture into the pouch, emerging with a pinch of fine, crystalline amber dust. She sprinkles the powder into her open palm as Gwen watches, transfixed. The woman takes a deep breath and exhales gently through pursed lips. The powder is lifted into the air, swirling like golden leaves caught in an autumn gust, enveloping Gwen’s face in an orange cloud.

She is nine, and her father isn’t coming trick-or-treating with them. He has to work, her mother tells her, but she knows better.

She is thirteen, and she doesn’t want to go out this year. The move was rough on her, and she has yet to make friends at her new school.

She is sixteen and she is going as a black cat. Her mother tells her that the costume is too sexy. A screaming match ends with Gwen slamming her door, burying her face in her pillow and sobbing.

She is eighteen and this is her first Halloween away from home. She hasn’t seen her father in over a year.

She is twenty-four and she realizes that she’s never been in love.

She is twenty-nine and she realizes that she is old.

She is forty. Happy Halloween, her co-worker tells her on his way out, and she blinks in surprise. Is it the end of October already?

She is fifty-five. Her doctor has found a lump. We’ll need to run some more tests, he tells her. It’s nothing to be alarmed about yet.

She is seventy-two. She never had children, was too scared of having to see the passage of time reflected on their faces. Now she wishes she had, wishes she had someone who could endure it with her. Does that make her selfish?

She is eighty-six. She cannot remember what her mother looked like. Her father’s face she forgot long ago, but every now and then she thinks she can hear his voice.

She is ninety-two. The orderlies stand around her bed as she breathes her last. They hold her hand, caress her arm gently, whisper soothing nothings. It will be okay, they tell her. She doesn’t need to be comforted though. She has lived her whole life on her deathbed – this moment now is no different than the rest. A falling leaf might be an inch from the ground or a mile: it is still falling either way.