It's that time of year again. Autumn is creeping in, bringing roiling skies and chilled winds from the north. The light is fading earlier each evening and, no matter how I race home from work to grab a few minutes on the deck, I never quite make it, the light dipping down below the stand of pines . . .

This season is quite dull, so far. The tropical storms from late August ripped so many trees apart, scattering branches and leaves that now there isn't much for autumn to work with -- all is sere and brown.  The splendor of a New England autumn is a faint memory from years past . . .

But the beauty of autumn is still there if one looks hard enough, long enough. Maybe it's not something you see but rather feel through the other senses -- the smell of the north winds, the crisp cold air that tingles and tantalizes, the first bite of pumpkin pie or a macintosh apple, the warmth one gathers from the fireplace, a truly wonderful spot to sit and dream . . .

 

weaving thoughts and memories around like so many strands of ribbon and yarn. And as the garden slowly moves into its yearly slumber, a stand of old bourbon roses waves as you wander by, lifting their drowsy heads to give one last scent, a parting gift . . .

A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively,

wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically

that he remakes it in his own image.

Joan Didion

(all artwork and photography by K. Marszycki)

Summer Postcards

Old Ferry Point

Summer reminds me of those old postcards

we sent and received over the years -- 

cryptic notes, smudged wishes, illegible names -- 

all crammed into 3 or 4 inches of space.

They always arrived on someone's doorstep

after we had been home for days, too.

Wychmere Harbor

And the choosing of just the right card for just the right person

always a tricky deal, wasn't it?

I remember sending postcards to my boyfriend (now my husband)

and hoping to strike the right tone -- not too mushy, not to trite,

how to let him know I missed him without committing myself ?

Grey Skies

They are usually scattered throughout one's house,

in drawers and small boxes labeled vacation 

or something like that,

wrapped in a ribbon or with a bit of yarn,

tucked next to old letters and

the children's school projects in a jewelry box or drawer.

Treasures of our past lives, mementos of fun times,

fragments of a well-navigated journey

(or not)

Provincetown View

Years from now, will my children find these artifacts of my life?

Will they care and cart them back to their homes

to be tucked back into another drawer?

I hope so.

And every time they lift them to find something else,

a drift of perfume, perhaps a grain of sand,

will tumble past them

and I'll be

there . . .

All images are available as real postcards and prints
at my site on Redbubble;
(background textures created by Ghostbones,
Skeletalmess, Telzey and Playingwithbrushes on Flickr;
Custom brushes and text by myself)