When I hear the leaves crush beneath my feet I think of you. Fall was always your favorite season. November seems much colder without you. I remember when you left. It was three days before Thanksgiving. The temperature was forty degrees and the trees surrounding you were in full fall colors. The yellow, green, orange, red and brown leaves floated over you. This year, though, they seem just to fall to the ground, not really catching the wind. I cried one day. It wasn't the day you left, or a month later. It was when I knew you would never return.

Years ago you used to sing to me. You didn't use words. The only instruments were the whistle of the wind and the squeak of the porch swing. Carelessly, you hummed a tune that was so beautiful it could not be duplicated. The wind no longer whistles. Instead, it is a terrible moan that is frightening. The swing doesn't squeak anymore. It disappeared with the melody that disappeared with you.

As I walk up the cemetery hill to you, I realize you are gone. This is the first time I've come here since last fall. The colors are dull. I place the flowers on your grave and take one last look. I think this will be the last time I'll come here. Walking back down to the road, the leaves start to float again. Off in the distance I faintly hear the melody of your lost song. Now is when I cry. c