Autumnal Renaissance

Essays

Sep 20

Fall has always been my favorite season. Maybe it’s the crisp air that weaves through me and gives me a little huff of energy to move through the world in a wool sweater. The weather makes my body feel right. I become temperature-adjusted in the universe. The way the air blows is music to my ears; a daytime lullaby for an adult man.

I played sports in all weather growing up, but you could play for hours and never sweat in autumn. It was a windswept elixir that gave you unlimited time and focus. I can see myself throwing bombs in Cadman Plaza Park on a 63-degree Sunday, flags at my waist, red hair flopping, and my dad celebrating my fifth touchdown with his standard, “Way to go, Jon.”

I can feel it coming today, but the trees show no signs of the impending color changes. They are yet to paint themselves into portraits for the ages, with yellow and orange hues covering the background like a tapestry of acceptance. Everything looks better in autumn; even me. I open my bedroom window a crack to get a microgust of the future.

Summer is a slog for me. Heat walks, overworked air conditioning, and warm sleeps litter my list of peeves. When the sneak peek of fall comes, it’s a reminder that my renaissance is around the corner.

The leaves are truly beautiful in October, but as an onlooker, beauty becomes a hot mess for an adult homeowner with a backyard. Every step inside brings a couple of wet stragglers with you, their vibrancy downtrodden as a solitary lost autumn snowflake. But then the strays pile up, and memories of childhood leaf-jumping bring it all full circle.

I think I am just a better person in late September to early December. I wouldn’t say there is a pep in my step, but there is somewhat of a rebirth. I off-road aimlessly through the other seasons to come home again to an unironic blue vest over a plaid shirt. Fall has always been like a warm blanket to me.