The Simple Things

Mahogany Brown

The changing of the seasons

The Small Things

They always say one thing about pain: it will come when you least expect it.
My mom and dad are probably smiling now, knowing they were right.

The seasons shift—people line up to watch the leaves fall. Somewhere outside my window, a single leaf drifts down, landing into hands shaped like a cup, waiting.

The color of mahogany brown matches the eyes I think of—warmth, depth. Looking into them is like looking into history, like seeing both the past and the future pressed into woodgrain. Reflected in those eyes, I see autumn’s soft silence—brown and yellow leaves painting time into stillness.

I hear my mother’s voice: “Lataurus, love will never be easy. But it is a fight worth fighting, with feelings worth feeling.”

And she was right. Time is moving—never waiting for you, never waiting for me.

Each year, our bodies grow weaker. The mirror betrays us, showing how rich brown hair turns to gray, how days shorten and nights arrive early. Cold sweeps through the halls, but fire leans forward, offering its light, filling souls with warmth.

These are the small things we will miss—when someone drives away from love, giving up hope that a new day could bring change. Hope lives in the lines of a hand, waiting to be touched. Hope lives in the veins of leaves carried by autumn winds.

He looks back at the sun setting in his rearview mirror, unaware that she was born to be his one true love. His tires kick up dust, his ears filled only with the sound of the road. His eyes see only Colorado’s busy highways. While others find joy in fall’s colors, he has no time to pause, no time to notice beauty slipping through his fingertips.

I’ve learned from walking these roads again and again: richness is not in things, not in buttons that bring food to your door. Richness is in feeling the earth beneath your feet. In holding a fallen leaf and realizing what it means: freedom. To cook leftovers without waste. To live with what is here, what is now.

As cars rush past me—running away from love—I hear my father’s voice:
“Son, don’t rush when you walk. Take a moment. Notice the birds, how they sing morning songs as the sun rises. Notice how trees change with the seasons. Notice how babies who once couldn’t speak now open their eyes, letting you feel their love.”

He was right, too. The world greets you with small offerings:
a shop gate rolling open,
a stranger holding the door,
a smile exchanged.

Small things.

Like laying by the ocean, hearing waves dance across rocks before kissing the sand, tiptoeing onto your feet. Like listening to music without words, your own thoughts filling the melody. Like reflecting in silence, where your heart teaches you what matters.

“Son,” he said, “don’t walk just to arrive. Walk to listen to laughter, to the noise that tells you love is still alive. Even if the world can’t see it anymore, close your eyes—hear your heart beating slowly.”

Even like the car driving away from love, the world has gas stations that refill your spirit—the warmth of the sun, the crispness of winter nights. Walk not to reach empty places, but to feel the soil beneath your steps. To know that pain is part of life—that is what makes life worth living.

Love, too, is soil—seasons mixed together. And one day, someone will hold a dirt-stained leaf, see the beauty of me, and remember.

These are the words that still live with me today.

As I sit on a weathered bench, gazing into a sea of trees, I see mountains dressed in silence and majesty. They wear every season: spring’s tender bloom, summer’s restless fire, autumn’s golden hush. From here, I sit still and learn.

Your eyes can gather lifetimes simply by watching, by touching the textures of this world with attention.

And as the piano spills into my ears, freedom stirs—not freedom to escape, but freedom to belong. Freedom to scream into the trees, letting the world know: I am still alive.

Some lessons cannot be taught. Love falling, knowing if you let go, it lands in someone else’s hands.

So it is bittersweet, like black tea steeped with cinnamon—its warmth filling my senses, making me think of her. Seasons flood into the cup, teaching me that winter itself has meaning: her body, her warmth, keeping me alive.

The small things.
Always the small things.

Living inside the mahogany brown.