The appearance—and ensuing disappearance—of these yellow leaf carpets around the city marks the end of my last autumn in Beijing. At the peak of the season, the threads that make up this natural flooring hung on the branches above me. Now the branches are half-bare, but at least the sidewalks glow golden and bright.
They remind me of how sunsets create the most magnificent skies at the very last minute of the day, just moments before the darkness falls. It’s almost as if the sun intended to save one last burst of light for the end—a finale of sorts.
As the remaining leaves await that final gust of wind to carry them off, perhaps into someone’s hoodie, I feel an urge to spend more time outdoors before the winter fully takes over. For anyone procrastinating on any outdoor plans, this is the time to get after it. The panic alarm has gone off. The deadline is drawing close.
Autumn is when Beijing is at its most beautiful. When the air is clear, ordinary streets look like they’ve been painted with vibrant poster colors. The temperature is perfect, cool to the point where layering is comfortable but also optional. The dried leaves make for the perfect crunch on silent walks back home.
I have this habit of checking the weather forecast right before going to bed and again the moment I wake up—just to be sure. Practically, this helps with deciding how much or how little to wear. But my main concern is knowing when the next sunny, good-air-quality day is.
This is Rule #1 of enjoying the autumn: spend every good day outdoors—even if that means studying while sitting on a cold park bench on a particularly windy afternoon. Now at the season’s end, this has become my only rule.
It’s not that serious, though. There will be more autumns, of course, and it’s likely that I’ll be back for a couple of them within my lifetime. But despite that, I still can’t shake the heavy thought of its finality. Based on what I know for certain, this is the last one.
This reminds me of all the other “lasts” in this life, the moments we don’t always recognize until they’re gone. Just yesterday, a few Filipino friends and I at the university had our last lunch with two members of the group, who are flying back to Manila today. Since they only enrolled for one semester of Chinese language classes, they won’t be returning for the spring semester next year. We said our goodbyes and our “see you back in the Philippines.”
Some lasts are temporary. Do them again, and they become second to the last, and then third to the last and so on. You see that friend you haven’t spoken to in years or revisit a restaurant you haven’t dined at in a while.
As we walk out of the cafeteria, I talk to our other friend Wil, who, among our little group from the Philippines, has stayed in Beijing the longest. I tell him that I’ve realized this is the nature of our time here in Beijing. We meet so many people, but we also have to say goodbye to almost every single one of them.
Other lasts are less reversible. I once read somewhere online: “At some point in your childhood, your parents picked you up and put you down, and never picked you up again.” I’ve since occasionally wondered about all the lasts I’ve failed to notice.
There isn’t much we can do about the ones already past. And this we know for sure. But as for the ones that have yet to arrive, Rule #1 feels like a good place to start.