It’s foggy this morning. I do love the fog; it softens the edges of things and sort of makes it all feel a little bit imaginary, like a film set. The air this morning is pleasantly cool, and even though I know it will be hot by the afternoon, right now it feels like fall. I like fall, but then, what’s not to like? The trees turn gorgeously showy and at the best of times the air has a sharp, almost tangy bite.
This morning, however, there’s an oddly antiseptic smell drifting through the open window near my desk, as if someone scrubbed the sidewalk with Lysol. This is, you know, weird.
I have mixed feelings about fall. As I mentioned, I like it. It’s beautiful. The weather is nice. I get to wear sweaters. I like sweaters. It usually involves a trip to an apple orchard at some point; it usually involves a long aimless drive to look at the foliage gone wild and fiery. It is the season of back to school and fresh starts, even as it is also the season of the last hurrah before the long cold sleep of winter. The days are noticeably shorter, and I have to wear real shoes. And socks. (This is the real tragedy.)
The thing is, fall, as lovely as it is, always makes me a little sad. Just a little. There’s always this vague sense of unease, like there’s something slipping away. It is the feeling of love — you knew it wouldn’t last — crumbling beneath the surface, and you let it because there’s nothing else to be done, you let it crumble, even as you enjoy the super-saturated final act when you love harder than you did before because you know you must.
This morning it feels like fall and it smells like Lysol but the fog has mostly lifted by now and it will be summer again soon, maybe even within the hour. And, despite the tone this post has taken, I’m feeling good this morning, well-rested and all. (That feeling well-rested in the morning thing hasn’t happened much lately so it seems especially sweet today.) I miss writing here. I should do that more often.
Hi. How are you?