Fall feels a bit like it has slipped right past me- my brain already in next year, my emotions still laying out to dry in the summer heat. There’s a strange sort of pleasure in feeling like an entire season has zipped by. But no, it’s more particular than that- the transition, maybe? I can’t remember shutting my windows or turning up the heat or unfolding thick pleats of sweaters. I can’t remember pulling out boots and hats or shaking out extra blankets. I can’t remember rubbing off August’s orange nail polish or when I bought these books or wrote these pages. One part of me decided to move along while the other part was still stretching out for a tan.
And yet here I am, wrapped tight in the mustard-colored scarf my grandfather gave me before I moved to Boston. I’m walking through the morning over slick, wet leaves and not even really noticing the chill.
