I've never moved in autumn

October, under pecan trees and above gravel driveways, the polka dotted shirt my mother had on was long sleeved, Halloween was approaching, my little neighbor friends talking about costumes as they  started to walk home with their mother.

I remember when my mother's blue and green scarf went flying off her head and out the car window, as we passed over the bridge. I saw it float high above the water, the sun was fiercely setting into the lake and blinded me before we drove out of the scene.

I keep feeling the morning sun at the window in my grandmother's bedroom. The smell of freshly washed clothes and how the floor felt beneath my feet.

My grandfather, at the kitchen table, two weeks before he passed, telling August how he wanted to buy her a baby chick and how he smiled and it was the same smile I saw when I was her age.