And Then There is Light

"Do you see it? Do you see that light!?" she cries from her seat in the car. She points outward into the distance, reaching, begging us to see what she sees. New York has succumbed to Autumn and the trees have turned to stark reds and yellows. It's rare that a day in the midst of this season would be so bright, but the sky is cloudless, the sun is high, and the air still carries the slightest tinge of warmth radiating up from the once hot summer ground. We're driving along the ridge of the Genesee Valley on what will be the last outing before the inevitable decline.

They say that when you die, you see light. As you take your final breaths, the world sinks into a deep tunnel and when all feeling fades, a light illuminates in the distance.

She points and cries again "That light! Don't you see it?" Her arm is outstretched towards a shaded pool of water ahead. We've stopped for a moment at an overlook to let the remnants of summer sink in through the windshield. A stiff breeze rustles up from beneath a grove of trees and they erupt into a flurry of red leaves. A pair of crows cackle in the distance and a cloud sweeps slowly over the valley below us. There is no light besides the sun that carries the south western sky over our shoulders. She points and demands we look but there is nothing to see. I cannot see the light, but she swears it is there.