Fall’s here. Ok, not officially. Officially, fall’s here next Monday, but I don’t buy that. I feel the crispness, my hair has finally de-frizzed, I see the pumpkins in the windows of all of everything. Fall, poor writers, is here.
That’s fine. I like sweaters and pumpkins. I like that I can feel cozy for the first time in about five months. Tea. The color orange. These things are nice. But around this time of year, the fallish time, I get a weird feeling. I think fall is the most nostalgic of seasons. You miss summer. You miss schooldays. You miss your mom packing lunch and the little paper leaves teachers tacked up to bulletin boards.
Even the trees feel it- sure, the leaves are beautiful this time of year, but why? Because they’re dying. People in warm colored sweaters are holding their arms to the sky, twirling around joyfully in the midst of beautiful leaves falling to their deaths. Fall creeps me out.
I think I need to go get a pumpkin spice something and curl up with a good book around a bonfire with a haunted house. Or something. I’m saying I need to get in the spirit. Or maybe I am in the spirit-the strange fall spirit that will fix your hair and make you think about the inevitability of winter, death, New Year’s Eve. Everything that’s to come, everything that has come already, pumpkins, apple picking, weird reminiscing.
Get at me, fall. I’m ready.