Remembering

Autumn is here.  In Northern Illinois, the leaves on the trees are starting to turn golden and scarlet.  The days are shorter; the dark cloak of evening comes quicker and stays longer every morning.  We've kept the windows cracked open slightly, letting the crisp breeze from outside freshen the house.  My mother-in-law took down the bright, pastel seasonal decorations and replaced them with orange and brown ones that signify Fall.

Over the weekend the season officially changed, and it became apparent to me when I attended the annual Walk to End Alzheimer's with my husband's family.  This year we chose to participate in a more rural locale, west of where we live.  As we drove we passed through cornfields ready for harvest, the sky a cool blue with clouds stretched wide above.  Here and there were little pumpkin patches with hand-painted signs stuck in straw bales.

It all reminds me of last Fall.  I was six months pregnant last year at this time.  Bruce and I lived in our townhouse.  One day, coming home from somewhere, we spontaneously stopped at a pumpkin farm.  We held hands and strolled around, looking at the Halloween crafts for sale.  We sampled apple cider donuts and took pictures in front of the pumpkins, me holding my tummy and beaming.  Bruce bought me a lovely pot of mums, which we placed on our back patio.  We were so happy, so excited to start our own family.  We never envisioned the turn of events that would lead to us moving in with Bruce's parents.

So on Sunday my husband, his parents, the baby, and I met his aunt and cousins in the walk to benefit the Alzheimer's Association.  Alzheimer's disease is a tragedy that has blanketed Bruce's family.  His paternal grandmother passed away this year after suffering from it for many years, too many years.  Those who are familiar with the disease know that it's not only the person afflicted who suffers.  Every loved one suffers, too.  We walk to raise money for the charity, but also to celebrate Bruce's grandma's life - a physical tribute to her memory, to her memories.

I think of this woman, who lived her youth a long time ago, who had babies that would grow up to be Bruce's uncle, father, and aunt.  She experienced so many proud moments in her lifetime and so much hardship, too.  At the end, she couldn't remember the moments anymore.  They were lost to her, but not to her family.  Her life inspires me to cherish what I have.

When summer is over, I always feel a little wistful.  This year I can't help but recall the past, when Bruce and I had a home and everything seemed possible.  To be truthful, remembering hurts a little now.  The future seems so unclear.  Yet despite the aches of yearning for what is gone, I have to remain grateful.  I have my family.  I have my memory.  And I'm going to keep them as close as I can, for as long as I can.

Autumn will turn into winter, which is going to feel endless this year.  But eventually, spring always arrives.