Originally published October 16, 1996, in The Reidsville Review, Reidsville, NC.
There's just something about this time of year.
One morning, usually sometime between late September and mid-October, I know before I even open my eyes that autumn has arrived. I'd know even if I were blind to the deeply hued scenery. Even if I were deaf to the crunch of fallen leaves. Even if I were numb to the crisp chill in the air.
But that smell. You know that smell? Rotting leaves? Drying grass?
How could something as rancid as rot fill me with such a cozy, nuzzle-up-next-to-the-fireplace feeling? Envelop me in a hayride-down-in-the-country feeling of bonfires complete with marshmallows on a stick?
How is it I can love something in which virtually everything in nature dies?
Once, my grandmother, trying to instill in me her knowledge of growing things, knelt in the earth of my front yard and scooped up dirt with her strong brown hands, clearing room for the gnarling roots of a lilac tree.
"I hate the Fall," she said with conviction. "It makes me sad."
Although our plans to educate me have failed miserably (due in no part to her), they've faired better, I suppose, than with my mother. Previously unable to keep alive even plants on the Better Homes and Gardens' Can't-Kill list, my mom dusts her silk greenery regularly. What a gardening guru my grandmother would be with students of any count.
She could only dread the season in which the fruits of her labor shrivel up and deteriorate.
But without death, I awkwardly said to her that day (the beginnings, possibly, of real communication between us), there can be no birth nor life, no leaf nor blossom.
Right?
Maybe I can find it in me to love autumn with all its death and decay because I trust in what I've come to expect.
Each of my 27 years, I've seen nature slowly and, to some, painfully die. I've seen the world colorless, covered in white, frozen. Winter months have hidden my senses' knowledge, my mental picture of the brightness and freedom of spring.
And then, each year without exception, I've seen nature reborn. I've almost forgotten and then, when I've seen the world reawakening, it has fit somewhere inside of me, a piece missing.
Autumn to me is a reminder, an upcoming events flag. After the leaves fall, rot and disappear and I almost forget the vibrant shades of warm weather, it will be back with a vengeance, much better than what I would remember if I could remember.
But I've got to trust. I'm willing to take the risk. What's life without it, anyway?
