"Mother, I have smelled autumn, and it's inside this box!" My son's voice rang from the recesses of the mud room closet. With global warming finally losing the battle of the seasons, we had decided it was time to deck the halls with orange, rust, yellow and brown."You're right!" I caught a whiff of fall as I lowered the plastic bin from the shelf. Prying open the lid in the living room was like the redemption of Pandora's box: memories came pouring out in the essence of clove, apple, and some undefinable crispness which spilled from the bin and enveloped the room.
I find that in the height of seasons, like February, July and November, I feel claustrophobic and restless. I come alive at the turn of seasons. Maybe it's the promise in the unknown, like the intrigue of the big red X on a treasure map when the journey is just underway. Maybe it's because the wind blows more violently in April and October, scattering the stagnant and rousing the lethargic.
Autumn is a paradox. Can summer die? Can winter be born?
The warm sun on my face and the cold breeze at my back is like a friend I don't quite trust, but feel drawn to just the same. The sharpness of the air is that same necessary slyness needed to outwit such a companion. The bursts of color on the trees and from stalwart flowers mirror the adrenaline rush of a chase, a battle of wits, a maneuver well played.
My house is alive with the fire of fall.
