Indian summer blew by like
dandelions, nights filled with
a golden orb hanging low in the
shadowy sky, an inflated swollen
moon that whispered of waving
harvests and sun kissed grains.
Indian summer flew by like
birds’ migrations south through
chilled air and leaves turning
scarlet, sunglow, and burnt umber,
pumpkins ripening amidst tangled
vines twisting and turning.
© Pamela Rossow
This morning was a foggy one. Not too common for South Florida. I still get caught up in the emotions of the mist just as I did when I was a child. I used to be enthralled with the ghostly weather and would scurry to a quiet place to create, pencil in hand, scratching a mysterious story into existence. As an adult, I still feel a connection with that young girl. Only now, in addition to the dash to my quiet place, I acknowledge the uncanny sensation of ties to those who passed. Who are now caught in a misty limbo of sorts, misconceived as haunters, who are the ones haunted. I can relate to their restlessness, their shadows. Memories, donned in disguise, creep in and stir up latent emotions that persist under the conscious radar. I am left, like a viewer seated on a cold, padded folding chair, in a darkened room. An old projector flashes images in black and white on the bare wall in front of me: wet children in soggy socks smiling, laughing their way down a slip and slide, mockingbirds shrilly calling, waiting, fluttering to land in my cupped palms, greedily gobbling crimson cranberries, a butterfly garden bathed in moonlight, the intoxicating, overwhelming perfume of night- blooming jasmine, being cradled, feeling safe, protected for the first time in more than a decade, by someone who was my home, although I had been displaced, whose frame wasn’t four walls and a roof, rather a soul enveloping embrace. The fog has lifted, somewhat, but the pregnant, gray clouds overtly hint at imminent, cleansing precipitation. . .