Fall

recently attended our local writers' group and the prompt was "fall:"  verb, noun season, whatever.
We had 20 minutes - and being the consummate cradle Catholic:

Falling from grace, again.  No number of confessions, aloud or to an unknown god or goddess seemed to purge my soul.  How many times can you be sorry, seek absolution - to reach redemption?  And how many times will you utter "Never again?"  Well, one more, I suppposed, as I pulled the wool knit watch cap lower on my brown  The raw November wind was blowing out of the east, a sure sign of a storm brewing.  A light mist freshened and I turned my face to it, relishing its cleansing touch.  Baptism, I thought, idly.  Maybe that works full spectrum.  Once as an innocent, then rinse and repeat  as needed.  I looked out over the dark creek: not a ripple, even where I'd tossed my burden, my nemesis.  I almost wished I could feel more remorse, see some rent in the smooth surface, some outward sign, a stigmata of sorts.  Not that I didn't have my regrets.  I always did, now, didn't I?  This is the last time, I vowed.  The last time I look into the darkness and recall my latest transgression.  I'd really let things too far this time.  Further than ever, and further than I could afford.  What price, really, had I paid, what bottomless account had not yet been bankrupted?  Tattered gray clouds shrouded the quarter moon.  A new moon would have been perfect.  I resented the silver shafts of moonlight like bony fingers shining on the water's surface, accusing me.  I used to take months, once a year, to reach the ugly emotional escarpment driving my precipitous fall.  My necessary evil.  Basta! I exclaimed, recalling my old Sicilian aunts.  Basta - enough!

This is the end of it.  I pulled my shawl closer, threw the leather gloves in the scrub along the creek and pulled on a pair of fleece-lined mittens.  There's something so innocent and childlike about mittens, something comforting.  The mist turned into light rain as I hiked back to the truck.