Fall in Cambridge
It is raining today in Harvard Yard, a cold autumnal rain that washes the maple leaves off the trees. They swirl in the rainwater, shimmering orange cascades that flow along the gutters. At intersections in the drainage grates clog with leaves, masses upon masses of crushed biomass, and the pavement is puddle with shallow stagnant pools, too deep to jump across.
And for some reason Homer’s old saying came back to me: “the generations of men are as leaves.” What a ridiculously pompous Harvard kind of recollection! And yet how true that line seems today! It has been a full year since I last suffered through a New England winter, and yet it seems much less. I wrote a few good papers, earned a few gray hairs on my head, had a few memorable moments with my wife, that’s all. I am still a tender young life, and can look down on the fall’s leaves from on high. Yet around me on my little branch are hundreds of new buds, pubescent and just unfolding, and I am sure to them I seem like a true stout leaf. If the generations of men are as leaves, is the fall a tragedy or a miracle? Or perhaps the question is not a proper one, not answerable- the fall just is, come what may.
And for some reason Homer’s old saying came back to me: “the generations of men are as leaves.” What a ridiculously pompous Harvard kind of recollection! And yet how true that line seems today! It has been a full year since I last suffered through a New England winter, and yet it seems much less. I wrote a few good papers, earned a few gray hairs on my head, had a few memorable moments with my wife, that’s all. I am still a tender young life, and can look down on the fall’s leaves from on high. Yet around me on my little branch are hundreds of new buds, pubescent and just unfolding, and I am sure to them I seem like a true stout leaf. If the generations of men are as leaves, is the fall a tragedy or a miracle? Or perhaps the question is not a proper one, not answerable- the fall just is, come what may.
