There’s something about Autumn. It has too long been a something that I couldn’t quite define. I’d begun to attribute it to merely a change in season that reflected my own sense of loss of summer dresses, long days, and warmth. It was a feeling very much like that of waking from a dream, almost recollecting what that dream world was all about, but not being able to see it or describe it clearly. Just a vague, fleeting feeling of longing.
But I pinned it down with the clarity of having just woken.
This is what it is: I was sixteen.
It is a sense of excitement over the setting sun, because we’d walk in the cover of darkness. The chill in the air drawing us closer together for warmth. The sweet smell of decay and change as leaves fall from the trees and gather deep in spaces protected from the wind. We’d seek those spaces and make plans for the future. The crunch of those leaves under foot as we walked, hand in hand, without expectation or destination. Through the woods next to the river. Down the streets, past the houses; passing through the wood smoke from their fireplaces. Everyone inside them seeking warmth and coziness, while I passed outside with my warmth and coziness beside me. His warm embrace was my safety.
Autumn is romantic.