She would sit just looking at the trees; her eyes alight with wonder, like a small child. And she would run, kicking at the drifts of fallen leaves, laughing and gasping as they crackled and crunched beneath her feet, barely noticing the misting rain, creating a halo as it settled on her hair.A line from a song drifted into my head: "You always loved this time of year".Well, not quite.Actually, a lot of the time, she hated it. It meant the end of sunny days and warm endless evenings with the heady perfume of late summer flowers.But she did love the leaves.It was the colours, I think. All those bright reds and oranges, twisting and twirling as the breeze wafted through the trees. They were warm colours, nature's last hurrah before the cold really took hold.And, of course, they were like fire.Fire.She loved fire; loved snuggling up beside a big open fireplace, watching the flames flicker around the logs, the embers glowing brightly with almost fluorescent intensity. The light would. The reporter slowly eased her way out of the church. John wondered if he would hear about this on the news tonight. He stood up and walked over to the priest, tapping him on the shoulder. The priest was shaken from his introspection. He went to the podium and continued the service.John returned to his seat. He watched the people around him. He thought about the letter that she had left him and her gift of the pictures to him. He hoped that his eulogy did her justice. The funeral was over quickly.As John was leaving, the priest stopped him. “Dr. Carter, could I have a moment of your time?”John nodded as he answered, “Sure. What can I do for you?”“I just wanted to thank you for your words in there. You are a very charismatic speaker. You remind people that they should do their Christian duty to love one another. You have rejuvenated my faith this afternoon.”John smiled at the irony. He answered, “Thank you. If I have helped you, then I have done my duty.”“Are you a monk?” The robe and.
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