“Mom, let’s see the fall colors together again next year” ... The words left unsaid on the last night of October [Words from Then]

[Financial News]  October 31, Saturday, 8 p.m. The last days of autumn hung heavily outside the window. The trees along the street had already changed into their red and yellow attire, and a wintry chill had settled in the air. It feels like only a short while ago that we were turning on the air conditioner, yet now we hesitate to go for an evening walk without a coat.
I look at the calendar. The last day of October. Tomorrow will be November, and in two months this year will be over. Time can be so cruel. Each day feels long and exhausting, but looking back, a year passes in the blink of an eye. As I scroll through the photos on my phone, my eyes stop at a family photo taken last autumn. My parents are smiling brightly beneath a tree with leaves in full autumn color. At the time, it was just an ordinary photo.
But when I suddenly place it beside a photo taken this year, a heaviness settles in my heart. My mother’s hair has turned a little grayer, and my father’s shoulders look a little more stooped than before. I’ve only gotten a year older, but my parents have aged by a year. Why does this utterly obvious fact feel so unfamiliar and painful?

When autumn comes, people go to see the fall colors. Even when we take our parents on an outing, we often end up hurrying back, pressed by busy schedules and fatigue. When we sense that our parents want to stay a little longer, we answer without thinking.
“Mom, we can come again next year.”
It’s reassurance offered with no ill intent. We firmly believe that autumn will come again next year and the leaves will change color, so of course our parents will still be there. But looking back, we make plans for the future so casually. “I’ll take you somewhere nice to eat next time,” “Let’s travel when I have some time”—we put off countless promises until “next time.”
Work is busy right now, we have to take care of the children, and on weekends there’s a mountain of housework to catch up on. We can’t blame ourselves for a reality in which simply getting through each day is exhausting. But there is one truth we forget completely: the seasons return unfailingly every year, but the people we hope to welcome them with will not remain there forever.

When I was young, my parents seemed as immense as a mountain. My father was a Superman who could fix anything in a flash, and my mother was like iron, never tiring no matter how exhausted she was. My father carried the heavy loads, and when a child was sick, my mother would stay up all night. Back then, I couldn’t even imagine that my parents would grow old.
But at some point, the small changes become impossible to ignore. My father, who used to stride ahead, struggles to keep pace with his child, and my mother, who had a good memory, repeats the same stories. The wrists that once effortlessly lifted heavy things have lost their strength, and they catch their breath when climbing stairs. Only then do the children realize: their parents, too, are growing old.
As I went from 30 to 40, my parents went from their 50s into their 60s and 70s. If the past 10 years were a period of intense growth for me, establishing myself in society and raising a child, for my parents they must have been years of loss, as the bodies and routines they had grown accustomed to gradually fell apart. Even so, we always try to remember our parents only as they were when they stood tall. It is the most frightening illusion in the world.

Let’s do a somewhat melancholy calculation. Suppose our parents are 70. If we have the next 10 years with them in good health, we have just 10 autumns left. If we go to see the fall colors once a year, we have only 10 chances.
Put one off because we’re busy, skip another because we’re tired, and the days we can actually spend together dwindle even faster. We can save money and spend it later, and put off a vacation until another time, but this year’s autumn with a 70-year-old mother will never come again. Even if we take a photo in the same place, the parents in that moment will never be the same as they were last year.
This is the source of the strange feeling that washes over us when we look at old family photos. Our parents are always smiling brightly in the pictures, but time in the real world moves on without a care and makes them grow old. Perhaps what we miss is not how they looked in those photos, but “the time back then”—time we can never hold on to again.



October will soon be over. But it’s not too late yet. It doesn’t have to be an extravagant trip or an expensive meal. A slow walk in the park near home or sharing a cup of warm tea is enough. Let’s gather the courage to say first, despite the awkwardness, “Mom, let’s take a photo together.” We can’t know now how much comfort that one photo may bring us someday.
Tonight, let’s call our parents. After saying, “Mom, let’s make sure to go see the fall colors next year,” we should add this: “No, let’s not wait until next year. Let’s go next week—right away.”
It’s good to make plans for next year, but the time we have with our parents is youngest and brightest right now. On the last night of October, another page on the calendar turns. The autumn we will one day miss so achingly may be this very moment, passing by as if it were nothing. More precious than a promise postponed until next year are these words: “Mom, let’s go right now.”

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