Winter was a baby when I experienced my first Ithacan fall. In the immediate early days of my walks with him, it would only be me staring at him, waddling by himself on the sidewalk. I only interfered when he started drifting towards the road, but other than that, his baby fur glistened in the dew collected from the pile of leaves he insisted on passing through. It was a sight to see. A small rebellion, I could allow it.
It would just be me, Winter and heaps of many-coloured leaves at daybreak like nature’s confetti, with only the dawn’s quiet whispers to keep us company. The ‘no soul in sight’ part was also because I chose streets that were rarely walked on by anyone other than those who lived there or had turned a wrong corner or, you know, anxious walkers with rashly adopted puppies.
On one of these chilly fall mornings, walking behind him, in an entanglement of thoughts, Winter stopped. Not suddenly, but noticeably. I stopped a few paces behind him. There was some sort of staring that was happening, but I could not figure out what the subject was. Whenever his head turned and the direction of the gaze...Read more
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