Sunday night, leaves falling and the wet earth smells of mold as if the yard is now a forgotten cellar, its builders long gone. And the pain in my chest is familiar, so human I am humbled. My original sin has always been vanity—I believed in myself to extremes. I couldn’t see, but was smarter than the other children. But tonight I smell the dank roots of the apple trees, hear the snorts of deer grazing in the dark, and know the thin, moon-glow fall to earth—see it, that is, and know we scent the going first.