When everything makes sense. The buttery warm feeling at the bottom of your soul that courses through your body, alighting on your fingers, warming up your cheeks with that inward candle-lit shine.
It's fall again, and everything around is slowly dying. The foliage takes one last sleepy glance at the world before retiring into their wispy corpses in preparation for winter and snow and ice and death. But the funny thing is, you've never felt so alive.
When you can communicate with giggles and laughter and smiles. And the conversations are light, bouncing about the room like apple-red balloons that are filled with the imagination and beliefs of children.
The leaves roll out the orange-as-an-autumn-fire carpet for you, and it's not plush or extravagant or carpeted with the rich. And yet its crunch is somehow just as satisfying.
When God is so prevalent in your life that all you can do is praise Him. For you know that He alone gives you the perfect peace that wraps you up, lays you down gently, kisses you to sleep.
The blue drifts lazily above you. If you stretched out your little hand far enough, you're convinced you could pull down one of those fleecy clouds, lace it around your fingers, knit it together to form a blanket of autumn sky.
And when you were tired of it all, gather the memories together in a bundle in your arms and store them in a glass mason jar in the cellar. When winter comes, you could creep down the steps, lift it from the shelf, unscrew the lid, inhale the spicy scents of autumn life, of happiness, of fall leaves, of all that is right.
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