Somehow, to me, fall is the most nostalgic season. It takes me back, way back, back to my childhood, sitting in my mother’s lap on the porch in the early morning, all bundled up against the chill, watching the fog fade to reveal the bright leaves, red, yellow, orange, browny-gold.
The smells of fall are the most distinctive, too: the dry smell of fallen leaves, the smoky smell of a fire, the warm pastry and spices of baking, like drinking warm apple cider with a cinnamon stick for a straw.
Fall is when people come together; during the summer they go away, searching for water or cooler temperatures. But when the days get shorter, we return to hike in the forest, go back to school with a new outfit, backpack, and pouch of pencils, gather in warm cafes with crowds of friends and strangers, or visit our families.
Even though the natural world seems to be suffering a beautiful death, it is in the fall that we begin to come back to life after the long, hot, languid summer. Our old dreams rekindle and new ones take on shapes that materialize out of the fog like mythical beasts come to life. Because in what other season could we be so likely to encounter magic? And dreams are, after all, a very real form of magic.
