Autumn Fall Spring May 2026

He buried the box at the tree’s roots, right where the crack in the trunk met the earth.

“You can go now,” he told the maple. “Both of us. It’s all right.”

To anyone passing by, he was just another piece of the park’s furniture. A statue in a worn cardigan. autumn fall spring

But here is what they didn’t understand, and what Emory would have told them if he could:

The next morning, he found the first branch on the ground. Not broken by wind— laid down , gently, like an animal curling up to sleep. He gathered the fallen twigs and arranged them in a circle around the base of the trunk. A wreath. A promise. He buried the box at the tree’s roots,

One for you. One for the fall.

The second week of October, the maple put on a show. Every leaf that still clung to its branches turned at once—a riot of crimson, amber, and flame. People stopped to take pictures. Children ran through the drifts of color, laughing. It was the kind of autumn display that made strangers fall in love and old couples hold hands. It’s all right

“Don’t miss me in the spring,” she had said, her hand light as a fallen petal on his cheek. “Miss me in the fall. That’s when I’ll be closest.”