A Year to Date by Aidyn Smith

If October is a painting by some bitter soul,

Full of browns and oranges, reds and whites,

Full of feeling and loss with a memory of good times had,

Now hanging from a tree in defiance of the wind,

Than May is like a child's finger-paint,

Full of color and chaos, but somehow happy,

Not even knowing of the sinister colors of fall.

Earlier today, I rode my bike down a mountain road.

As I rode, my brow wet and my legs heavy,

I watched the scene before me:

A man rode his bike ahead of me.

He turned along a curve which was inevitable,

And he was then lost from my sight.

In that moment, in this place of green and yellow,

I was alone and I was struck by isolation.

As I rounded the corner, I saw the man and I smiled

Like I would upon seeing an old friend.

As I ride my bike on the rode, my mind is far away.

It sits in a yard with an old friend from school.

It has been a long while since I've seen him,

My little black book gathering dust by the phone.

And this too caused my brow to sweat,

Though I no longer smiled.

I thought back to that foggy morning on Little Hill.

I remember the depiction of a cross embodied in stone,

Marking his bed and at that moment, the fog felt right,

Enveloping us in our blindness.

Once in a dream, I opened my eyes to darkness.

I sat at the bottom of the sea in a reef.

I looked around and saw the life surrounding me

And I opened my mouth to say something,

But all that came out was a small bubble,

Eager to reach the light above.

I never thought life could be so comical.

The humor in the situation I found myself in

On that mountain road was like

Children in their parents garb,

Playing like adults in a ballroom,

Clumsily doing a 1-2 step they'd only ever seen

On television shows so that when they attempt to

Execute their waltz, it looks more like

A baby's square dance.

Believe me, what happened next was equally comical,

Like a giant man-baby in the corner,

Being scolded by his mother;

A sight which I have not seen, but if I had,

It would cause me to chuckle in horrid hooting stanza.

As I rode along the road, a car passed a little too slow.

The music coming from within was also comical,

Like Cotton-eyed Joe.

I remember an old dance.

The worst thing he ever said to me was at school dance.

He said, “I'm going to kiss her tonight.”

This strikes me now, because I don't think he ever did.

These days, I feel like I have to hold onto him,

Like a trapeze artist holding his partner

Who is only dead weight. I find it harder

And harder to remember last May,

With happiness in the air and

Color on the ground.

Listen, life is a year.

In May, you feel the sun and by October,

The sun is a happy memory and by January,

you have forgotten it entirely.

But you would never appreciate May without

The Fall.

Once in October, I sat in that misty yard.

I looked at that stone which

Inscribed the years and names.

I sat there for awhile and then I stood

Without saying a word.

I did an about face and I marched away.

I marched out of that yard,

Out of that fog,

Out of those old woods,

Out of those old metal gates,

And I marched into the sun and walked down the road.

It is not October, it is May.

The fog is gone and the trees are green.

I continue my bike ride.

May is warm and I am hot and

I think of my cold water bottle in the fridge.