Sensory Memory

Fall has a particular smell. Perhaps they were doing it all along, perhaps they started only recently--neighbors burning wood and leaves. You can smell it the moment you walk out of the house, the heavy, humid air gone now, the crisp, light air of fall carrying this scent into the core of your being, making you happier than you knew possible two days ago when it was 80 degrees and summer.

Fall explodes in your mind and senses. Fall is orange and green and bright, contradiction between cold hands and warm sky. It is bonfires and camping, cold air on your face while your toes blister from being so close to fire and heat. It is football and marching band, screaming and laughing. Fall is sweaters and slippers and the warm blast of heat coming from a heater newly found on the hearth. It is life and death entangled, beauty coming not from new life, but from the slow death and inward motion of the world preparing for winter, yet somehow invigorating those around.

Fall is parks and children laughing and roadside pumpkin stands. It is that first cup of cider or hot chocolate, steaming up glasses, warming hands, seductively sliding down the throat. Fall is air popped popcorn and Macintosh apples, and Macintosh apples are love, a package sent from far away and eagerly anticipated each year as the leaves turn.

Fall is here and it is beautiful.