Last night I stepped out into the garden and suddenly my world felt like fall. Even through the fog there was a crispness that couldn’t be mistaken.
In a city that can cheat you out of every season and deny you the use of summer clothes year after year, somehow the feeling of fall is undeniable. The angle of light is low and the air is clear and cold. A glimpse of brown and yellow trees, a slowing of plant growth and the rustle of dry leaves on concrete…even the scent of the air is bittersweet.
nostalgia: a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations
Every year around this time, I’m reminded of the hills and woods that I grew up in. My roots tug a little harder than usual, drawing my mind back to a place of red, yellow, orange and pink leaves – the brightest I’ve ever seen. If I close my eyes I can almost feel the frost crunching beneath my boots, hear the quick gurgle of a cold creek and suddenly, I am surrounded by oaks and pines standing in an almost dormant, dry vegetable garden filled with golden pumpkins still tied to their blackening vines.
San Francisco, September 2011