I will always be in love with the colors of autumn and the inimitable and plural tones that nature dresses at this time of year in London. By the way, the streets of London suddenly fill with leaves and nature bursts into the urban landscape. For this interruption of the human hand and its return to Mother Nature, I will always be grateful.
And through these streets of the London neighborhoods that are only silence and the wind roaring through the trees. Where the autumn wind whispers, where you hear “the wind rustling the leaves of the trees,” and in the English expression the onomatopoeia that so well imitates the voice of the wind resonates even more.
Behind the iron bars, behind the stone walls, I see new and more trees that are taking off the summer and changing. In metamorphosis. They change to rust tones, mustard yellow or lemon, and warmer garnet tones, reminiscent of the red of the vine and wine and its lees. Reminiscent of currants or pomegranates.
Behind the black fences that separate public and private space there are no longer barriers between the road and the patios because autumn tears them down, because autumn envelops everything and splashes it in its great and endless blanket of colors, sounds, smells.
It also descends into the canals, with its strong and striking presence and no creature can ignore it. I sit there on a bench facing the water of the canal and the geese and ducks, on a wooden bench made for contemplation, on a bench whose back is inscribed with the evocation of a life: two dates and a summary of the journey between them.
Each bench is a tombstone in the form preferred by the English: in attenuationand the parks are full of memories of those who are no longer here, but only for those who are interested, come close and want to know. Each bench is an offering that a Londoner made to public space, a tribute paid to a loved one, a memory of someone who marked another with their life and thus escaped death.
“To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die,” I read a few days ago in Abney Park Cemetery, a cemetery in north London.
I chose to sit on this bench that was donated by a son who did not forget his mother. And what this says is like this:
“Softly the leaves of memory fall, gently, I collect them and treasure them all
Invisible, unheard of, you are always near
So loved, so missed, so loved.
“I love you mommy”
The translation is something like this:
Gently the leaves of memory fall and I delicately pick them up and keep them like a treasure.
Invisible, inaudible, you are always near.
So loved, so missed, so dear.
I love you mommy
And while I’m there, a leaf falls next to me. There is an analogy between the fall of autumn leaves and the fall of memory cards. As the bank registration reminds.
I digress. It is no coincidence that autumn is the season of memory, of the dead, of All Saints’ Day, of Remembrance Day. On the second Sunday of every November, Britons gather to remember the end of the First World War and all those who did so. From then on he died in wars and military conflicts.
It is a reminder of the sacrifice that they say was not in vain, but a contribution of each citizen to the achievement of freedom. This is the assumption, perhaps not always true, but therefore canonized.
Remembrance Day is an English and Commonwealth uniqueness, a counterpoint to All Saints’ Day in continental countries.
It will arrive soon.
Lives in London since 2005
Source: Observadora
