No One In This World Ever Gets What They Want

A few days ago, it was the first day of Chicago autumn. Or as I prefer to call it, "fall". I like fall better for some reason. Maybe because it's an active verb. (Curse you college acting classes.)

I love this weather. It's constantly cool and breezy, even when the sun is out. It makes me think of fireplaces and campgrounds, of sitting by a lake with a bottle of wine and holding hands. Nature is more appealing to me in the fall. Everything is quieter, more relaxed. The world is having a drink before bed.

If I were to anthropomorphize the seasons (and really, who doesn't want to?), fall would be a man in his 50s. An outdoorsman. A man capable of handling things. He would like to work in his garage, and chop firewood, and take walks around his large tree-filled property. Fall is a kind of twilight-time. It signals the end of things, but it is not itself the end. I look forward to that.

There is a kind of sadness in late September, a grey mood, a slowing-down of things. One remembers what they meant to do in the past months but never got around to. One looks forward and sees cold white death. For the meantime, they live quietly in the dusk of fall.

The other seasons are fine. I like the endurance test of winter, the cautious optimism of spring, the warm summer nights. But fall is my true love. Fall and me, we're forever.

And that is beautiful.