Ghost Squirrels

The battle of the leaves are over, a few hundred pounds of them pulled behind the fence and left to rot.  We live on a wood-line, an old windbreak separating farm fields.  I still find ancient shotgun shells writhing up from the dirt under the nearest oak tree.  I think there must be hundreds of ghost squirrels littered under that tree, too.

I wrapped the last of the tomatoes in newspaper, and stored them in a brown paper bag in the garage.  I check them every few days to make sure they haven’t rotted, and I bring the pink ones inside to ripen on the counter.   I have two left.  I'm hanging on to them like they are the last limes on a sailing ship, adrift at sea.  I’m hoping to ward off the scourge of the coming winter, but I know I will fail.  The tomatoes will only last a few more days, and I will have fresh-grown tomatoes on my salad in early December.  That will be a gift unto itself; a savory memory, a reason to look forward to the seeds of spring.

Freelance work slows down this time of year, too, but writing fills in the dips of time.  I’m two-thirds of the way through the first draft of a new novel.  I was awakened at 3 o'clock this morning by the scream of one of my characters.  Things are working as they should.

I have never had much patience for transitions, but I think I’m getting better at it as I get older.