What is it about Autumn that pulls calls to my heart?
What tugs, gently, once, twice, three times, on the thin golden thread attached to the lowest rib of my chest year after year?
Amber hues and a sky set on fire. In the run up to those cold dark nights and crisp mornings, I feel something on the horizon. Not just the chill in the air, something deeper than that.
Autumn is home for me, perhaps even more a home for me than a place ever could be. Autumn is dependable, and sweet, and so full of potential. Autumn is when I start to wake up after a long, aching, summer of sleep.
The cold is sometimes my enemy, more than for most people. A few degrees below summer and my joints begin to ache. My body wasn’t built to last the winter, I sometimes think. And yet, and yet, here I stand on the precipice of a cold winter, egging Autumn on to feel colder, to be more extreme, to light me up.
Perhaps I secretly love the cold, and the piping cups of tea made only to warm my hands. Fingers covered in wool, words tumbling from their tips as November begins. Perhaps I love what I become in Autumn — I don’t know what that is exactly but it makes me feel more alive.