Not Enough.

Forgive me, but even happily booted and flanneled and even with the Toad in a hoodie and me in a hat, I still felt like the walk to school smelled like spring. Something green's on the air. Possibilities: We're in for one last (or next-to-last) round of something blooming, the overseeded lawns are coming in, the leaves just now piling in the gutters are in the sweeter stage of rot—or maybe this is fall, and I just don't remember. How much more human I've been feeling this time through, with the Toad at sixteen months, than I did last year, even though this time last year was the time I thought I was settling in, finally, the time I thought I might in some small way like the child.

I did not yet like the child. Now I like him plenty. Plenty.

And he's found the moon, says 'luna' every time he sees the sky, day or night, luna or no. Looks for stars up there, looks for them everywhere else, too, finds them hanging from front porches, sees them on t-shirt logos, in the way reflected light slides across the kitchen ceiling. Giggle giggle, he says. Twinkle twinkle.

It's cool in the shade still, but warming in the sun. The maples are about fully turned, and the pin oaks are throwing their fingers of leaves down everywhere here to the park. I'd say we're still more green than anything else, but we're moving hard toward peak season here on the flats. The colors are muted this year. That either means a lot of rain or not enough. The gauge has been cracked since late last winter, so we're going to have to content ourselves with not knowing for sure, though an easy guess says not enough. The easy guess is always not enough, isn't it?

Off-season discount strawberries over there on the kitchen counter. Pot of coffee half-full. Midmorning breakfast. Stack of bills and paperwork. The Toad at school in his train overalls. An ache in my left knee. This is the last of October, friends and fans of weather. Don't miss it. Take note. Remember for next year.