Making Memories

Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow I’ll bring my camera and capture this for eternity; the fresh verdant leaves mixed with the palest of greens still clinging to life, the yellows, the vibrancy of “I know I’m dying, but I have one more day to live, so I’ll live it in the brightest possible way,” the browns, withered and weathered and wrinkled and old, but sticking around and allowing passersby to enjoy their delightful crunch.

But the days fall into each other, like a stack of dominos, and the camera stays in the right-hand corner of the bottom drawer in the dinette. Fall doesn’t last forever, I remind myself. It’ll be over soon, and I’ll regret the missed opportunity. But still, I just don’t get to take the photos.

And then it happens. I’m on the way to work one morning, rushing, rushing, always rushing, the wind slapping my face (gosh, when did it turn so cold?), and there’s a huge truck and florescent jackets and orange lights blinking, and I know that my opportunity is gone even before I see the rakers.

I look at the street, no longer painted with vibrant hues, and a small sadness settles in my heart. I was busy running, doing important things, mind you — trying to get to work on time, to provide for my family — but still, I was doing, doing, doing, not prioritizing making memories. And now my daughter will never have a photo of herself as a toddler in a maroon jacket, surrounded by autumn leaves.