Another September come and gone. The change from summer to fall, from green to red. I sat on my porch step examining the leaves, mostly brown and crisp now, but there were still some precious red, bright and inspiring. This was the only thing I liked about fall: the red. It was vibrant and exciting while everything else was dull and brown; the grass, the trees, the flowers.
September was a sad time for me, the summer fun was long gone, faded away faster than the green did. I wasn’t always like this, so morbid and masochistic. In fact, many, many September’s ago I loved the browns and yellows. That was before—well before he disappeared from my life. Mr. Jonathon Kingston , more perfect than any man, or so I thought.
He swept me off my feet about ten September’s ago. He came and I couldn’t help but fall in love with him. He took me to quaint little restaurants away from the crowds. One of the restaurants I remember in particular . . . not by name or by owner, but by color. It was brown—just like the September leaves—and made out of some soft wood. The placements were red, bright, vibrant red. This cute little restaurant matched the trees perfectly.
It was there on that tiny porch that John asked me to marry him, and it was there on that tiny little porch that John asked me to leave him . . .