YWP

Opinion written by Whitney Curtis, Williston Central School

I make a right turn down Condor Avenue with my shoulders held high near my exposed neck and my hands shoved deep into my pockets.

When I was growing up, I lived in a state of confusion. The state that I lived in had autumn, like all the rest, but never seemed to know it; that, in turn, confused me.

My friend mentioned she was sad to see the leaves drop. She said this as if the shedding oak trees were a disgrace to her. As if their nakedness wasn’t breathtaking in the eyes of an artist.

if life is but a dream for the dead

may you visit us during autumn, the eldest of the seasons

letting your fragile bones be exposed to the crisp air of october

letting your fingertips run over the bars of the cemetery gates