The leaves in the meadows are now yellow and brown. They crinkle at the slightest touch, and are gathered around the elm trees that perimeter the grass, which covers the ground like rich, green velvet, cut through only by dark grey, concrete pathways.
We walk on the pathways because the grass is always wet.
The weather has been unusually kind this season: the sun was out on most days, and the infamous wind wasn’t really at its worst. It would be unusual to find some sleet and ice on the grass, for it hasn’t been that cold. We picked the parts that were sunny, and if it was windy and gloomy, well, it was windy and gloomy; the walk had to go on.
We’d pass the dedication benches, the Quidditch nerds and the tennis courts where you’d stare at them as they train.
Everything and everyone is peaceful and quiet; except for us. We are mostly laughing.
It could be the short round if we didn’t have much time; or it could be the big round if we wanted to indulge ourselves.
We were born to be tragedies, to get our hearts broken, for life is an impermanent state. Time is interfering and never really on our side; it moves too slow when you want it to get past and too fast when you want it to halt. Time makes you humble: it puts you on the same pedestal as everyone, tells you that you are never more special. It will run out one day, for each one of us.
Relationships will end. Friends will no longer be friends. People will move away. Life will change, more than you’d like. Maybe you’ll find yourself a changed person as well, for better or for worse. And one day we’ll all be fine dust and sand, indiscernible from simple, humble ground.
But that doesn’t disregard the now- now exists. What is present is real, even though it may not be real in the future. This is as real as tomorrow will be; tomorrow will be as real as this ever was. It may not endure now, but it very much existed once, and when it did, it was beautiful. It must have been, for it is recalled.
When I go back, maybe the green would have turned white. The trees will be bare and cold, and the hues of red, yellow and brown will be gone. They won’t crinkle and rustle when I walk over them, and the sun will only show itself glimpses.
I rued the end of every walk for it was over, as that meant one less of it- life is short and time is limited. You get only so many walks and such few moments to make them count. It was going to be over soon, like everything else, for such is life.
So I shifted my feet in nervousness, facing another end. Another in the series of lasts and it was never going to be like this again. My heart sank a little, heading towards the meadows, for the final walk.
Yet you said, the very thing that needed to be said, on point, before the walk, you said that it may be the last one,
But don’t forget to enjoy the walk.