Whimsical laughter consumed our front yard as we discovered how daffodils danced in the wind. Glided as high as our dreams, tangible shortly before they wiggled through our fingers. Fingers that would point to the “V” birds in the sky, leaving but never really gone. Never truly missed because we all knew they’d be back. In the mornings, Momma would drag my sister and I out of bed to hear what she called the Early Rhapsody. And this is where we learned to appreciate the small joys in life. And this is where we learned that honey is only as sweet as your sweetest tooth thinks it is. There was a small patch on our porch tinted red from squished pomegranate seeds that’d fallen during contagious laughter. In these moments, I swear I could see myself mirrored in the twinkle in my sister’s eyes. Her eyes were the colors of the fallen leaves out front including the reds and the yellows and the oranges for her visions had no limits. I credited her with why the skies were grey and packed with sheet-like clouds, because one day she said she was tired of the sun. At the end of each day, we’d sit in our drying grass inhaling the pumpkin smell that floated in the air. We learned to love pumpkins even though the color reminded us of carrots, and we didn’t like those. We learned to love these days because there was no other time in the year where we got to eat so much pie. This is how we survived the season, bellies round, hand in hand, eyes on the grey horizon.