the leaves of the Sycamores

Then there were the twilight weeks, a length of gray time between October and December when the weave formed in the summer seemed to come apart...

The patterns of our lives were being spun out in different worlds, and as the sycamores turned and the air grew cold the summer became a distant dream, and I could recall it sharply only in the very early mornings as I lay in my bed, no longer asleep but not yet fully awake.

At odd moments of the day... a disconnected piece of the summer would float slowly toward me and expand into dim memory... but the strange conjunction of events that had begun with the carnival appeared disentangled now, and the summer faded together with the leaves of the sycamores.

faded...faded