What is Revealed by the Light in October

I drive through the Provo neighborhood
And down the street where I grew up,
The familiar foothills presiding still and still.
There's our house, small and L-shaped,
An American Dream built out of brick.
And there's my father in his Sunday suit,
Tossing a ball to my brothers.
And there's my mother in her pencil skirt,
Her burnished hair piled on her head like a crown,
Cradling a white poodle in her arms.
And there are my brothers, scrabbling
After the ball like puppies on a beach.
And there's me, sitting on my Thinking Rock,
A granite boulder in front of our house,
Spinning stories out of everything I see.
And there's the light of October,
Gold and gleaming, rolling down the hillside,
Reminding me of who we used to be.