Fall

Summer has clearly left us. Our tomatoes are clinging to withering vines. Footpaths of curled leaves ring our house. You can almost smell the wine-grape harvest in Yamhill County rolling in on the morning fog.



Cool nights have turned to cold ones. It's dark in the morning. Last night, it was dark in the evening.

Apples and pears and squash abound. We ate a stew this weekend of pork, butternut squash, apples and herbs from what's left of our yard.



These smells and scenes remind us of a year ago, when we knew the baby within Sarah's womb was on the cusp of being born, but we still couldn't imagine what she looked like, didn't dream she'd be as great of a joy as she has, didn't even think she was a she. Our house wasn't really a home. Our lives were suspended. In a few ways, they still are.

Has it really been a year? This picture suggests it has...