I can’t quite place what it is about autumn that just gets to me every year. The falling leaves, the pumpkin spiced everything, or just the way nature calms down for the winter. Autumn hasn’t been my favourite season for my whole life, that I know for sure, but when I started loving it, I do not recall. For years now, I’ve found myself craving the smell of pumpkin and scented candles well before August has come to an end. Once autumn has finally arrived, I’ve found myself jumping into puddles, and staring at the rusty colours outside my bedroom window with a cup of tea cooling on the windowsill. It happens year after year and yet, I’m astonished. Each and every time. 

Perhaps my favourite thing to do each autumn, however, is to walk around in the forest by my grandparents’ house. I always leave my phone, watch and earbuds at their place and just… wander. I don’t need music or social media to disturb me. I don’t need to know the time. That may be reckless of me, but I don’t care. I just walk, and walk, and walk. For hours on end. I feel at ease. I can breathe in the crisp autumn air, tuck my hands in my pockets for warmth and comfort and just be free. 

A fun little thing I’ve noticed, by the way, is that my route has stayed the same for all these years. I always follow the same path. I leave my grandparents’ garden through the back. The little wooden gate creaks a bit whenever someone touches it, which it has done for years now even though grandpa has said that he’d fix it soon. I close it carefully, make sure the latch is secure and walk straight to the edge of the woods. There, I follow the winding path all the way up the hill, take a left and cross a small bridge over the stream, which never seems to stop flowing, no matter how cold it gets. After crossing the stream, I follow it for a while, take another left and stay on the path until I encounter the Black Boulder. It has always been in these woods and locals believe that it has magical powers. I have never believed these claims, but I do find the thought quite amusing. After passing the Boulder, I turn right. The path narrows quickly, and I have to be careful not to trip on the roots snaking on the ground. Stepping over them, I follow the path all the way to the highest hill in the area. And here, tall, and mighty, stand the oak trees. 

The ancient oaks. They’re beautiful. They are the oldest trees in the area, and their roots have spread widely. Their strong trunks rise from the earth in all their majestic glory and their robust branches twist and turn towards the sun gracefully. The leaves on each branch have started to turn a myriad of different colours, some yellow, some red, and some a rusty shade of orange. The different shades of green are slowly fading away as the trees prepare for the cold winter ahead. It’s almost as if summer never even happened. It’s magnificent. 

They look old, as one might expect. Their trunks and branches show signs of their long lives and the history of this area. Initials carved into hearts, abandoned bird nests, even an old swing. I can’t remember which tree the swing was on, though, but I’ll find it again. Some day. 

Oh, the ancient oaks. They make me feel so small. Like I’m just a speck of dust floating around their branches. They have lived for much longer than I have. They’ve seen things I could only dream of, for better and for worse. They’ve witnessed love and heartbreak, as names have been carved into their trunks and later crossed over with tears flowing freely. They’ve seen life, as they have witnessed small children play tag or hide-and-seek around them and climb on these branches. Perhaps they’ve fallen off of them multiple times, but they’ve persisted and kept trying. Eventually they’d know exactly which limb to put in which nook or cranny of the tree. Then, one day, the children have come play here for the last time. They’ve grown up, maybe even left the area for studies or work, who knows. Some have come to visit later in life, some even with their own children. Some, I believe, have come back here to die. One lady even wished to be buried here some years ago, but her request was denied. The oaks were here to witness it. All of it. 

I’m only a passing moment in the life story of these trees. Perhaps a chapter in their book, or possibly only a passage. How I come here year after year doesn’t mean as much to the oaks as it does to me. My little life is much shorter than theirs. In their life, I’m an insignificant, short memory, if even that. I try not to give myself too much credit. Sure, I’ve spent hours upon hours sitting and walking by these trees, but so have many others. These hours, however meaningful to me, might mean nothing to the oaks, that have stood in their place for such a long time. A year in my life is a blink in theirs. 

I always linger around until the evening, because the fiery leaves look even more beautiful when the area is enveloped the warm lights and colours of the setting sun. The sight is mesmerising. It’s like the trees and the ground under them is on fire. Not a violent, raging fire, but a friendly fire. A calm fire if you will. It is my favourite thing. The blazing old trees creak in the chilly evening wind, which always reminds me of my grandparents’ garden gate. It’s like a suggestion, or a request. As if the trees are whispering to me: Go home, little one. Go home before it’s too dark. And I go.