// Reflections on Change //

I think my earliest memory is on a bike. Alone. I remember the colors of the frame – blue, red, yellow. A Supercycle. I’m sure this is the earliest memory for a lot of people. At the time it was the first stroke of independence we all craved for. That bike was mine. I dreamt it would take me places, far away. And the most vivid memory following my first solo ride is the sting of falling off that same bike onto loose gravel. The way it scared me was worse than the actual pain itself. And that was the first time I realized something I loved could hurt me. The second time was a few minutes later when my Mum rinsed out the cuts with alcohol and Polysporin. 

My childhood feels distant now, and short, and faded. I question most of what I can remember, hoping I haven’t forgotten it all already. If I’m being honest, aside from a few vivid feelings and images, most of my life up until maybe the third grade is opaque or missing from my mind. Then until maybe age fifteen it’s rusty. It scares me to have lived all this time but only recall (intensely) the last eight years or so with complete certainty. 

I grew up in a very rural area across from an open mine where they blasted - and still do - for gypsum rock. To this day I still only know two uses for gypsum, and that’s drywall and toothpaste. You know the little gritty bits you sometimes feel through the mint? That’s gypsum. Now, when I say rural, I mean quite rural. The only kids that were around and my age were the neighbours two sons who were both younger than me. So I spent a lot of my time playing alone, or with my older siblings until they got too old to play with their kid-sister. Our house sits almost 800 feet from the road, so traffic noise was minimal, and winters spent shovelling were a bitch. Surrounding the house is forest in every direction and you can’t even see the neighbour’s house. As a child, it felt like we were living in another world all our own. 

There’s an apple orchard halfway up the driveway that produces an abundance of apples every other year, about four or five different kinds. And blackberry bushes and raspberry bushes used to grow wildly all throughout it and alongside the driveway as well. Though I did climb the apple trees from time to time, I was more of a shaker – always shaking the tree branches to see what I could harvest as I was too small to reach the apples without worm holes. Behind the house are woods filled with various species of trees that my Dad still quizzes me on to this day. Beyond that lie a field, a rock quarry to the top left, and then another hayfield above the first field. The land our home is built on is wild. Touched only by mother nature herself, my father disturbed as little of it as he could and taught us to do the same.

October used to feel like one of the most exciting months when I was little, piling up leaves and jumping into them as if I couldn't be hurt over and over never grew old. Biking fast down the driveway and hearing the leaves scuttle behind in a whirlwind made me feel unstoppable, and carving pumpkins and eating the seeds until my gums were sore was pure bliss. But I used to hear talk from adults that it was one of their least favourite times of the year. I never used to understand why, I thought watching mother nature let things die was so beautiful because she did it with such grace. She let go more elegantly than any person I'd met. But now it seems like a tragic time for her, having to grieve all the beautiful things she brought to life. She must sit back and watch each of her children crack and wither, falling from great heights to decompose. No parent should ever have to do that. 

Allowing myself time to reflect on the past shines such a bright light on my perception of things from one year to the next. I only started dreading autumn in recent years. And what changed to make that so? I can't say for sure - I suppose my outlook on life changed. Or maybe one too many deaths made their way into my life, maybe it was as simple as a piece of literature I'd read. But I don't discount my past self's opinions, I can value the growth I've made even though I'm not sure if I'm growing towards the sun or not. I think any amount of change has gotta count for something. 

These days it's less hurtful when something I love is painful. I'm no longer a shaker, cuz you can never be sure what will fall from the tree. I understand death more, so I see the colors of autumn as burnt rather than bright. I cherish what memories I have and hold them close because who knows what I'll forget in a week? I've shed skins, survived rotations, grown deeper roots and taller branches, I've been ten people at least and I'm ready to be dozens more. I hope that just as the seasons, I never cease changing.