Understanding Autumn || Inasa Yoarashi

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Sometimes, as summer comes to an end and fall steps in, Inasa will stand outside. He'll grin, and the crisp breeze will tease his hair, nearly knocking of his hat, but his smile will only widen. A hand steadies his cap, and the other reaches out to feel the wind weave between his fingers.

Autumn has always been the easiest to understand.

He's the only one who can hear how it speaks through its high whistles and low rumbles. By the way it rustles through bare branches and sweeps along fallen leaves, whisking them up into the air and dying the sky in hues of orange and yellow. It tugs at his clothes like a small child, eager for him to keep moving. Its voice is heard through all the signs it gives, and yet he's the only one to notice.

Once, as him and his classmates stand outside, he hears its ghostly wail as it creeps through the hollowed out remains of a log. He understands right away.

"It's going to storm," he says. A few give him looks, and one curious enough to ask implores him on how he knows. He’s sure they won't believe him, but he tells them anyways.

"The wind told me," is all he replies. They roll their eyes and move on, forgetting about his prediction. But he can tell that a storm is brewing; the wind has never lied to him.

That night, it pours. The wind tears through flimsy objects like a knife, slashing across the sky and leaving destruction in its wake. He hears it all as he sits in his bedroom, the glass of his window rattling against its frame. The next morning the air is calm; obvious in the stillness of the fall foliage. For once, nothing is being moved along by a breeze. Someone makes a comment about the lack of wind, and the rest hum in agreement.

But he knows it's still there, caressing the back of his neck and whispering into his ear. Its touch is gentle as it tiptoes along his skin, sending tingles down his arms.

The wind is never really gone. But for now, it hides among the movements of others. Blending into the cyclones of leaves that build up as kids run past and the gust of a birds wing as it flaps.

To most, autumn is the season of death. The vegetation die in favor of the oncoming winter, ready to give in to the bitter cold. But no season is as alive as fall, and he's the only one who can tell. And it really is a shame, he thinks.

But some part of him takes pleasure in being the only one able to appreciate its beauty. The shrills it gives as it wanders through the holes of a jack-o-lantern, or the way it rocks hanging lanterns are for only him to enjoy.

So he'll take this privilege, keep it close to his heart, and wait for someone to come along and share it with.

For now though, it's his little secret.