This time of year always hits different.
Fall in Maine is stunning. The trees along the Royal River are just starting to turn — reds and golds sneaking into the green. It’s beautiful, yes, but it also stirs something deeper. Something heavier. The air changes. The light shifts. And with it comes a certain kind of remembering.
In the span of just six years, we lost all four of our parents — Kerry’s dad in September 2019, her mom in November 2022. My dad in September 2023. My mom just this month, on September 20, 2025.
All in the fall.
That can’t help but mean something. Fall has always been a time of transition, a season of harvest, of letting go. But it’s also when we see clearly — when the world strips itself back and shows us what’s real. What’s fleeting. What matters.
Walking through Royal River Park last night, I passed the old paper mill. It’s crumbling now, as the river slowly takes it back. Stone by stone, year by year, the water reclaims what was always hers. The message is clear: Possessions, money, buildings — none of it lasts. In the end, nature wins. Creation wins. God wins. We go back to where we came from. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
And that’s okay.
It’s why I live the way I do. Life is short. Unpredictable. Precious. We don’t get to keep anything — not really. Not even the people we love. But we do get to love them while we’re here. We get to show up. Pay attention. Be kind. Laugh. Pray. Grieve. Celebrate. Let go. Begin again.
I’ve been thinking about that Counting Crows album — August and Everything After, released September 14, 1993. That title alone says so much. August… and everything after. That’s the season I’m in now — both literally and spiritually. The “after”. The part that asks us what we’ll carry forward, and what we’re ready to lay down.
Also been hearing that famous Byrds song in my head:
Ecclesiastes 3:1–8 (KJV):
To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace.
The only original lyric added by Pete Seeger (who wrote the song before The Byrds made it famous) was the final line:
“Turn! Turn! Turn! … I swear it’s not too late.”
The grandkids — with the exception of Lainey, our youngest — were all born within just a few years of each other. New life arriving as older lives were letting go. Spring bursting forth like it does in both Maine and Montana. It cannot be contained.
Breathing in. Breathing out. That’s the rhythm. The flow. If you’re lucky, you learn to move with it. To roll with the seasons rather than be rolled by them.
We don’t get to choose the timing. But we do get to choose how we move through it.
So, to our parents:
You were loved.
You mattered.
We’ll see you again.
In the meantime, we’ll keep walking. Keep watching the leaves turn. Keep doing our best to live like life is sacred — because it is.
Eventually, August and everything after will come for us too.
But that’s not the end of the story.
