I sit by the window and, with Serepta curled up in Hanna’s empty chair, watch the pale sun top the trees, the cardinals and mourning doves picking at the cracked corn sprinkled beneath the feeders, the does and their yearlings drinking from the pond, and beyond that, at the greatest distance, Hanna heading down her driveway to wait for the bus. “There she goes,” I murmur, and Serepta’s ears twitch but she doesn’t open her eyes, so there are no witnesses to the tears gathered in mine. I wave at Hanna’s back and it’s meant as a greeting but feels like a farewell. I wish spring was melting into summer now, instead of autumn hardening into winter. I said that once to Hanna when she was twelve and she took my hand and pulled me up out of my chair, led me outside and around the property, pointing out how pretty the sun was in the clear blue sky, the vibrant scarlet of the sumac, and the fun of kicking up crunchy fallen leaves. We gathered pocketfuls of acorns and, like amateur Johnny Appleseeds, tossed them into the woods, picked catmint bouquets to hang dry in the pantry, and watched a monarch butterfly gliding on the breeze.
