Just days past the Harvest Moon, I welcome the gift of freshly picked tangerines and avocados.  I am a wealthy woman in abundance.

Within the corridors of me, stories grow like fruit on the tree.  Pieces gain my attention and I watch them ripen.

The story of an old boyfriend, my first love.  His Facebook message 20 years later, trying to explain the demise of our relationship via the latest rock and roll documentary he’s seen.  I’d forgotten how much he matched his life milestones via the album releases of his favorite band.  How I’m surprised to find he still does at the age of 40.

This fruit-bearing writing tree may also yield something profound through rebellion to my vanity.  The musings of my superficial considerations of gravity on my 38-year-old derriere offer insightful food for thought.  Hopefully a laugh.

And it seems that with this time every year, I revisit my autumn in New England in 1995.  The landscape there epitomized the season.  Golden sunlight through thick, glass windows.  Leaves turning the colors of fire.  The morning displays of apples and pumpkins I arranged at the Gardner, Massachusetts produce store.  Bob Marley in the tape deck of my Subaru.  Walks through the woods through Civil War sites and ancient cemeteries.  Long velvet skirts and a wool sweater.

These harbingers are growing.  Not quite ready to harvest, these tales soak in September sun while I take note.  Enjoy the ripening.