Memories

It is that closing time of year,
Leaves have been beaten off the trees,
By days of rain and gloom.
This type of weather begs,
For me to remember those gone before.
Melancholy thoughts of endings,
Refusing to see any new beginnings.
I think of my mother, gone a long time now,
If measured in years, not so long,
Twelve, I think.
It might as well be a million,
It seems as if it has always been this way.
And it isn't bad, nor good,
It just is.
I think of my father in law,
Surely he is in a better place.
It really has only been a few years,
Again, it might as well be forever,
And grandma, has it really been fourteen years?
Autumn always makes me think of them,
And I mark the time in our clumsy years,
Miss them, not with a sharp pain,
But in a gentle, autumnal, melancholy way.