Old Man: Autumnal

I once knew a man who claimed that the surest proof for the existence of God was autumn. "The leaves don't have to be so beautiful," he'd tell anyone who would listen. "They could very well just go straight to brown. Leaves could change from green to gray to black. They don't, though. Nature grants you a reprieve."

The wispy hairs on this long white beard would wobble with the movements of his jaw. Although his eyes were clouded with the onset of glaucoma, they retained the sincerity of his youth. "Everything is ready to sleep or die around you, but the mood of the transition isn't somber. It's merciful. The brilliant reds and yellows and oranges are full of clemency. The trees are saying, 'Don't be afraid. Take hope from our vibrancy. Death is not the end—be emboldened for the struggle against the upcoming cold hardships.' Could nature on her own ever be so compassionate? Where else is she so wise, so loving? The rest of the year, she is capricious. She's manic. She gives too much or takes it all. Never does she seem concerned with her tenants. But in the fall, she coddles you and whispers the sweet truth—not sweet because it is artificial but because it satiates. She fills you up not on earthly goods—tasty berries or savory meats. She graces you with transcendent goods, those that can be stored forever in the soul. Berries shrivel and meats rot, but truth, goodness, and beauty—they are always with us as the perfect food for our aspirations. The leaves fall, but we remember their splendor as it was draped upon the jagged branches. Aren't you thankful for that juxtaposition? That something so awesome can be here with us even when the winds prompt us to seek shelter?"

Even though the notion was outlandish and far removed from the flavor of the usual apologetics, there was something in the way he spoke that made you want to believe. His voice was full of warmed gravel. His breath would push past the residue of years of speaking that caked on his vocal chords. "Some people tell you that winter is the most accurate of all the seasons—that it speaks the most truth of existence. After the flourish of spring and the vitality of summer, the living whimper and grow tired and hard. In winter, life proves itself to be the accident we always worried it was. In the distant future, the universe will return to normalcy. Everything will be cold and dead."

At this point in his speech, he'd place his heavy, knobby hand on your shoulder for emphasis. The warmth of his mitt would seep through your clothes. "But I say, "No," and he would grip you tighter. "I say it's fall that most captures the way things are. It tells you, "Your ambition outstripped your potential. You got ahead of yourself with all of that budding and shooting of vines. We'll have to put your in your place. It's going to be painful, but you can bare it." And every spring, the world gets excited and every summer it forgets its proper pace. And every fall we are taught the meanings of the stern lesson of winter—that stultification is necessary but that beauty can see us through."