Do you know the way fall smells? The heat of summer sun baking the earliest hints of decay, warm fallen leaves. There is something to the chill in the breeze as night begins its solemn march back across the clock, taking more and more of the day’s busy hours. Inverse of spring, the end of things. A signal that it is time to burrow, to withdraw. There is a distinct shift, the way the light looks, and you know the heinous wrath of deepest summer has fought its last.
Fall is time for hearty soup, for thick sweaters and plush blankets. The garden at once bursts forth and dies back, fruits made in one last desperate bid for immortality. My cats remember how warm I am when I sleep and tuck themselves uncomfortably close. I am thrilled by the opportunity for a cup of hot tea while I watch cold rain fall, leaves on the ground. The dawn vanishes once more from my morning routine and I am tempted that much more by the comfort of bed.
I love fall. I know that’s unoriginal of me, and indeed we have built up an entire consumptive monument to the changing of the season. They have pumpkin spice lattes for sale in the triple-digit death of summer. Spirit Halloween haunts gutted stores like a comical kind of capitalist specter. I don’t care. I love gourds and hot cider, the comforting sweetness of pies in the oven. I long for Jack-O-Lanterns and roasting pumpkin seeds. I like the seat warmer in my husband’s car, to snuggle into it as we drive home. I am thrilled for the return of layers, sweaters and long dresses and scarves. I am grateful for an excuse to lean into the macabre, to watch horror movies and exist in my most gothic self.
I love fall despite the mental shift it heralds, my Seasonal Affect creeping back like mildew in that one corner of your shower, no matter how much you clean. We all pay some kind of price for the things we love, and in my case the price is more care towards my mental health. More vitamin D. If I could quit the deepening of depression by giving up the change of seasons, I wouldn’t do it. I love it too much.
Each season change is a joy, really; the peace of winter, the promise of spring, the glory of summer. Fall, though. Fall is deeply ingrained in me, the time that feels most like me. I want days that feel slightly too cold for bare arms, afternoons that slouch heavy towards the horizon and tuck us into nights that chill more than expected. Equinox, the middle of things, the salve on a sunburn. It will be too cold, soon, and days too short and skies too gray. For now though, never long enough, it feels just right.