Life is nothing without Light, and Darkness is her sister. Twin creators never to meet, destined to work in tandem. What she does not see, the other senses, and what one attempts to hide, the other discovers.

We carry with us the light and the dark because we were born from both. In shadows, our memories stir. From the shadows, we pull those things long passed into the light: a laugh, a glance, a warm cup of coffee in trembling hands, a walk to get ice cream, or a family dinner when everyone was present. From the gift of darkness, we temporarily illuminate what was lost.

I often lurk within the shadows of life - not as a bandit, or a coward, but as one who fights back sorrow so that I may lift the chalice of death to my lips for one last glance behind. Her spell weaves in and through me, whispers the past, clenches my hands within her cold embrace. Remember. Remember… I am lost within those places, those empty walls echoing, the chatter and buzz. Then it fades, and it was nothing, not but rustling of dried leaves. I drink once more, and I take her magic into me so that I won’t forget, but the magic of Darkness has its price and I am sometimes susceptible to the shadows.

Fall is a time of death. The world slowly passes before us, her leaves falling, her breath cold, her embrace sterile and weak. But she is not gone yet… she lingers; lingers to tell us her final story, lingers to love us a little longer. And then…the coldness, the emptiness, the end.

When the Earth warms once again, it is a different Earth - the tree buds are new, the flowers are not the same, the petals and leaves new extensions of old roots. Although it is all so similar, she has written new words into her poem of creation, and she, too, is different; a new mother, a new creator.

I do not want to be a wraith - a creature of the darkness bound to night, bound to the whispers of my memories. I have a heart full of love, a life full of light. But the shadows grow long, and the days grow short and weak. Tremors of the cold flicker across my skin, and the moon passes over my face. Perhaps I have drunk too deeply from the magic and held the pain too closely. Even with reassurance of their passing, my terrors still haunt me. A wraith I have become, a wraith searching for the light.

The world is dying - the cold is coming. Our mother will not return, but in her place, some other.