Termination Dust

My mother loved golds and yellows and with her favorite jet black beads coiled around her neck and swooping the front of her gold satin blouse, her exquisite sense of fashion was impossible to ignore. Each square of her windowpane checked skirt was defined by a subtle gold thread. I often marveled at her ability to pull individual pieces of clothing together, resulting in a most unique presentation. Although she carried some extra pounds, it sat atop two of the most shapely legs. Shiny black patent pumps completed her outfit. I don’t remember her ever wearing black clothing, although it's said to make the wearer look slim and my mother had a life long battle with the scale. Her colorful love of life seemed to forbid the wearing of such a morbid color except as an accessory. 

My mother died seventeen years ago on September 22. I often think of her as the emerald green leaves of  summer lose life, gently releasing their hold and falling to the ground.

Cool nights and copious August rain have changed the Alaskan birch and aspen leaves into trembling wisps of yellow. The Ostrich ferns that stood tall and emerald green in the summer heat now hug the earth like a fringed brown carpet.

One season must end before another begins. It seems mere days ago that warm air enveloped us and heated the lakes and rivers where we sought reprieve from July’s heat. Now, the autumn sun struggles to yield warmth before it slides behind the birches and dives from sight. On these September days, I find myself carrying my lawn chair around the yard, chasing the sun for its weak heat.

Our stay in Alaska will soon end and we’ll begin our drive home to Vermont. This has been a routine since 2008. I’m anxious to return to Vermont where the hillsides spew a rainbow of fall colors but, I also know that at some point during the winter I’ll long for the mountains and rivers of Alaska.

Ripton, Vermont

Knik Glacier 

chipping ice

As cold weather arrives in Alaska, glaciers once again freeze and run off diminishes. Glacial fed rivers become shallow and with less silt in the water they become clear. Slowly, the mud grey water of summer turns a Caribbean blue.

Robert Frost