Fall holds a knife to my belly

It’s quite distinctive to me how heavily we feel the transitions between seasons, and how each transitional period is unique in itself. And I know you’re probably thinking how obvious this observation is, but what I really find interesting is how static the emotions I feel are, year after year, from each season to the next. My least favorite is probably the fall into winter, despite the nostalgia of the holiday season and my favorite holiday celebrations during these couple of months. And this sentiment most likely comes as no shock to everyone else, as the days get shorter and the sun sets sooner, the cold that seeps in under your door frame, and the condensation of your breath outside, all feel like the nights get lonelier and the chill in your bones grows icier with every drop in temperature. And it’s not to say that I dislike when fall becomes winter, or that I dread it every year (or maybe I do, it depends on the person I am that month), but rather I am scared to face the emotional labor that comes with winter, the finality that comes with the end of the year.

My favorite time of year is when summer bleeds into fall. Never mind the physical beauty it brings, the vibrant colors of the leaves, the crisp breeze blowing in the scents of cider and cinnamon, and all things fresh and warm. The sound of the crunch of leaves underneath my sneakers is a sound I could get drunk on, and the bright, beaming sun in the cool air is almost seductive, the recipe for perfect weather. In New England, especially, the allure of fall is unmatched. It is fleeting every time, and for the rest of the year, I chase the nostalgia that this season brings. There is no feeling like burning from summer’s adventures, the memories you made burned into your skin and overflowing your camera roll, walking through the front doors of fall with a full heart and an optimistic soul. 

What I love most ardently about fall, though, is how the season makes me feel. Unlike winter, where the end of the year brings about a decided resolution, the renewal of fall is not as tenacious. It is a soft ending, a habitual conclusion to summer that stems from the academic cycle I grew up knowing. And though I am not preparing to step into a classroom come September, I still instinctively give in to this artificial timeline because it allows me to pause and take a breath. It’s almost as if the air around me agrees, too. The summer heat is suffocating; a deep inhale seems to fill my lungs with hot, wet oxygen. I can never seem to catch my breath in the summer. But in the fall, the air is clear; every breath I take is invigorating, sharp almost, like it is cutting away the fog that has inhabited my chest over the summer months. And suddenly, I can draw in a deep breath, and the wholeness I feel between my ribs is a reminder of what a privilege it is to be alive.

At the same time, fall is like a dull knife, slowly cutting away at my stomach, the blade not sharp enough to do damage with its first swipe. But over time, as it continues to saw away at my skin, my flesh, my organs, I come to realize that fall also brings about a placid pain, rooted in nostalgia and the hastiness of time. Every year, as fall comes around, I am reminded of the passing of time, remembering the person I was one year ago, and though I am completely grateful for the lessons I’ve learned and the woman I’ve become today, I still miss the version of me that was one year more naive. It’s silly, isn’t it? I am so happy with who I am today, yet for some reason, I still yearn for the heartbroken version of myself two years ago. Though I would never want to be her again, I would never want to endure that sort of grief ever again, I still look fondly back on her misery. Some days, I even miss it. I can’t quite understand why that is. It’s a sluggish ache that only comes with fall, the way the season triggers a bittersweet taste in the back of my mouth, the same way the opening credits to Gilmore Girls elicit tears in my eyes. 

It is always fall that I want to share with those I love, with my friends and family. Winter is when I am tempted into isolation, my social life hibernating until the snow begins to thaw around my heart. Fall, though, is when I seek out community the most. Maybe it is because of the guilt I feel for remembering too much, or maybe it’s the anticipation that once September is here, the rest of the months seem to collapse into each other, and I am rushing to make as many memories as I can. 

I do not know how to experience fall without pain. I wouldn’t want to. Autumn shows me how beautiful it is to let things go. It is the season of the soul. It wouldn't feel like fall if I didn’t reminisce about my past self, dream about the people I no longer talk to, the ones I no longer love. Fall is fickle; I tuck my orphaned summer dreams into the back pocket of my jeans, in between the pages of my notebook, so as not to lose them. I obsess over the dichotomy of fall, how September can be as sweltering as mid-July but also as bone-chilling as late October. The lengthening of evenings is not as daunting as in the winter. In fact, it feels prophetic, even now as I sit in August. 

As I teeter on the edge of summer, I can feel the blade of fall’s knife below my ribcage. It is not pressing in yet, not enough to leave a mark, but I can feel the pressure of it, persistent against my warm skin. I know this feeling, and I allow it. I lean into it, like a lover is at the other end of the handle, and I will do whatever it takes to get closer to them. It is the embrace of fall.