The brown, dry, and curled oak leaves gathered in the space between the sidewalk and grass form an autumn border of sound as my feet at times kick through.
Arthur leads with his enthusiasm keeping our pace brisk. It’s of no matter to me. The destination is not important. Our walk is determined by time not distance.
The blue dome of the U.D. chapel beckons from a distance, but it is too far to reach today.
We pass the Meyer-Boehmer and Reis Funeral Home on the left. The tall ornamental grass is dry and brittle in the yard by the lot where I passed with posters for Annie, two years ago now.
My fall pants and long shirt are too warm for a brisk walk on this day. The shade from the trees that line the walk ahead is inviting.
Holy Angels church looms across the street with its milestone memories of a wedding, a funeral, and the last time we took Dad to mass.
My gaze falls to the sidewalk and I see the remnants of smashed cherry-sized, light peach colored fruits that have fallen from the tree. It’s a stink-bomb tree, I think and memories of my childhood days when we passed beneath the stink-bomb tree on our walk to South Street school flood my mind. I hear again our cries of disgust as we tread through the fallen fruits, our shoes squashing, sometimes slipping, the odor making us gag.
The ginko trees have a pretty fan-shaped leaf that turns a bright and stunning yellow in the fall. Only the female trees produce the smelly fruit. I turn and walk back through the cool shade they provide.
Christine M. Grote 