Certain memories become colored as time passes. Deep blues and rosy hues cover small details, blur once-familiar faces, and build upon imaginary facts. Rarely does a moment escape this diffusion and remain vivid for any substantial length of time. But the memories that do last are much sharper compared to the rest.

I remember carving pumpkins, watching my grandfather’s knife saw back and forth through the thick rind, filling the air with amber scents. He told me that when I was older, he would teach me how to carve one all by myself. I grinned, missing three of my baby teeth, and tasted a pinch of the bright orange pumpkin guts. They were slimy, and the stringy bits caught in my throat on the way down. I giggled.

I remember the antiseptic, alien scent of a hospital room with drawn curtains. My baby teeth were gone, and I knew this was a different kind of autumn. Tubes wove in and out and everywhere. Strange beeping sounds cut through the air and monitors flashed in the corner of my eye. I had never felt fear so deep inside my bones. I sucked in a deep breath, hoping it would steady me, but the air was stale and thin. Nurses wearing powdered blue gloves talked in low, urgent tones in the corner. I reached for my mother’s hand, though earlier that day I would have called such an act childish.

With each passing moment, I felt more and more like a hunted animal. I wanted to turn and run somewhere safe and warm – somewhere I wouldn’t have to think about death or avert my eyes from the slow-breathing mass of blankets on the hospital bed. But I swallowed the lump that was building in my throat and felt it form a heavy weight in my stomach. It stuck a little on the way down, reminding me of the pumpkins I’d never learned to carve all by myself.

I don’t remember saying good-bye.