It's apple season at home, so soon there will be bushels full of lush green and red sitting on road stands, and the scent of crisps and northern spy in the air. We light candles every night and wrap ourselves in color and woolens. We make fall bouquets out of what others call weeds and we call beautiful. The air is alive and we can taste fall when we walk out the door in the morning.
We take off our sandals. Exchange our summer skirts for jeans.
The ground is deep, lush green, the treeline is orange, burnished tipped trees, and the sky is a brilliant blue every single day--billowing grey clouds settling into spectacular sunsets every single night. We don't even bother taking photos because it is life as normal and nothing special.
Oh, but it is.
The space heaters get turned on at night and we sip tea while playing scrabble, warming our hands around hot mugs and high scores. We ride bikes late into the night, meandering on college town streets, talking to strangers and loading our bike-baskets with sweet potatoes that we roast at home with garlic and olive oil. We are eating autumn and it tastes so good.
It is busy, bustling, bursting with life even though we know it is about to bed with death, but we don't mind. We have enough squash soup to keep us warm through the long hibernation. We pull out the knitting we never seem to finish, we take a detour to Lake Placid and breathe mountains. The air smells of campfires and wood burning stoves.
We ask ourselves if every kayak outing is our last.
A northern autumn gives me words, more than any other season.
I miss this.