This is the season of the autumn leaves. Clearly this is no literal accounting of time, when the snow outside my window, resting heavy on the porch roof, belies my words. But the leaves fall from the mallorn trees in Laurelindorinen, and Arwen lies down beneath them, and an age passes with her passing. The saddest scene in all the books was relegated to a paragraph in the appendices. The end after the ending. For first there were many goodbyes, and we, good readers, know of course that life goes on - happily ever after, we hope, but usually with more bumps, we suspect - and on until its ending. That many friends passing will eventually leave only one, the last one, with none to mourn, or at least - none who will understand the meaning of it all.
There is a being alone that brings life and light and gives the spur to creativity. Then there is a being alone that is a being left, alone, behind, the very last one. What to do when the leaves are falling, save to bundle up for the winter and say your prayers?
