The beginning of fall always stirs up the memories of Paul. Not that we don't think of him every day, but Gil and I both have had him on our minds more than usual the past couple of days. Yesterday as I drove to meet my friend, I found myself writing a letter to Paul in my head.

"Dear Paul, the intersection where you had the wreck is having a traffic light installed. The entire road is changing shape as they make a new exit/entrance off of 235. Analice is 10, can you believe it? She is enjoying her new school so far. I want to put fall flowers at your grave, but the monument people haven't yet fixed the vase, so it's 

 sitting in the garage. I'll visit, anyway, but I can't bring flowers, for the first time. It makes me sad. Laura is getting married soon. I wish you were here to be a groomsman, to dance with her again, as you danced with her at Erin's wedding."

On and on. I know I'm not telling him the changes in our lives, but rather, trying to grasp how much time has passed, how much he has missed, how much we have missed, trying to process it in my own head.

Fall. It used to be my favorite season, but I hesitate to say that anymore. I do like the weather turning cooler, but what fall really means to me is another reliving of "the last time..." incidents, and dealing with the death anniversary of my son. I think lately I've told people who ask, that winter is my favorite season.

Dear Paul, I've discovered another way I've changed, since you died...."