Yellow leaves on the tree by the bus stop. I don’t think they were yellow last week, but it was dark, early morning so… hard to tell. I’m going into London much later, today.
I miss Oxford. I think it’s over a month now since I’ve been into that other, more familiar office. I could of course, go any time, but I’m ‘needed’ far more in London these days and my energy being what it is I don’t think I could do them both in a week.
I sound old when I say things like that. I don’t revel in it, I just feel it. Little snapshots remind me of it - the white hairs that fall at the barbers, the overheard conversations of teenagers, the memories that pop up unannounced on social media. And of course the inexplicable aching that somehow goes deeper than bones and stomach.
Yellow leaves. You know, the colour was there all along. To conserve energy, the tree stops producing chlorophyll and it’s that chemical that typically turns leaves green. When it’s gone, all that’s left is the yellow, red, and orange of autumn - no longer hidden. Fire, wisdom, courage unfiltered. There ought to be a boldness when youth turns.
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