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rough and tumble
Welcome to the season of my content. Smoky leaves, fire-spectrum colors on branches so fantastic, you just want to melt and join them. Burnished sun, air that tastes like … spiced pumpkin pie. Mulled apple cider. Spiked. Baked apples, sweating out cinnamon and maple godliness. Outside walking over thinly crisping foliage, getting in the last of the warm air, drifting into the horizon. This is the good stuff, the fine times, when the Northeast redeems itself for humid, wimpy summers that never smell like peaches, and ass-freezing winters that over-stay their welcome when everyone else is sipping margaritas. Now is the envy of all the other climates. New York does autumn better. Deal with it.
I could eat it up with a spoon. I could crawl across its leaf-strewn lawns to get a better taste. I could throw you down in a pile of leaves, and pull them out of your hair later, giggling at you. I could get up late in the morning and pounce on you again. I could stay like this until it’s more appropriate to steal sips from your Bailey’s by the fire, making it up to you later. Just wait until the guests leave and I have you under my duvet again.
But something is missing this year. I’m not pulling down the wool sweaters and fall jackets from the top shelves of the closet. I’m not wearing my hair in waves across my shoulders. I’m not turning in with a cup of cocoa and lovely young boy to keep me warm.
I’m fighting it back. I’m trying to stretch my summer wardrobe; I’m still trying to flip-flop. I’m wearing t-shirts and thin jackets and linen pants, eating a dwindling supply of limp summer peaches and fiest-less heirloom tomatoes. For-the-love-of-god, I’m still drinking Corona.
Baby, I’m COLD. I keep thinking that Indian summer is just around the corner, but it’s October, they said it will be in the 50’s next week. I need to give it up. I need open myself up to you, succumb to your gentle teasing. I’ve never been a shy mistress. I’ve loved you longer than anyone, and I do you better than any of them, but I’m still keeping my distance. I’ve never done this alone, and I’m putting it off. I’m thinking it won’t be the same, but I miss the way you used to weaken my knees …
Sometime soon, I’m going to invite you all over for warm apple crisp and Octoberfest. THEN you’ll understand how I make autumn ache for me. How I make him sing. And we’ll all rake leaves, come inside and get toasted, and I won’t even remember that this year it’s different.
I’ll be too busy dragging you into coat closets,
frisking you under closely-pressed conditions,
and praising the weather that brought us back indoors again.
comments (6)
you always gotta one up me don'tcha deb? that ripped my autumn post to shreds. fucking awesome.
1 | hubs | October 3, 2003 11:43 AM
My bad. Everyone, go read about hubs new lover, who is, sadly, not ME.
2 | deb | October 3, 2003 11:53 AM
Not your bad. You're good. You're very good. (i wasn't fishing for compliments but i'll take 'em when i can get 'em). Thanks deb.
3 | hubs | October 3, 2003 12:30 PM
you have made me so insanely jealous of living somewhere with real seasons. clearly this means i have to move back to the east coast. you hear that, nyu? accept me, ok!?
4 | sassylittlepunkin | October 3, 2003 01:03 PM
mmm, cider and apples. I might have to go apple-picking this weekend. The smell of fresh cider donuts is the most tempting thing on earth.
5 | Lux | October 3, 2003 04:49 PM
This was gorgeous, Deb. Also, thanks for the link to hubs's farewell to Summer. That was also heartachey goodness.