Fall

Fall is my favorite season. The crisp air, the sharp smell of the dry leaves crunching underfoot, the burnished trees in the golden afternoon light. Buttery squashes. Spicy tart cider. Snappy fresh apples. Sweet homemade caramel corn. Toasty cinnamon rolls. The twang of nutmeg. Mmm. I love it.

Fall’s sensations enchant me; its tastes connect my body and soul. It is the portion of the year in which I feel most alive and full, perhaps because it is the season of my birth.

But Fall, as much as I love it, also happens to hold the memories of more than a few personal traumas. Today I marked the third anniversary of one of them with quiet and a few words of gratitude to the Creator of the Universe, with thoughts of the woman who shared that experience with me, and delight in the colorful morning sky. I wrote and wept. I pondered. I wondered how to express to myself and to others how meaningful, how poignant this milestone is to me.

Then I realized that I cannot tell you, or myself for that matter, all that this day means because its whole meaning has yet to be revealed. All I know right now is this: I find I am filled with both heartache and gratitude as I reflect on what has been and celebrate what has come, and I’m okay with that.