Fallen Essay

Although I love autumn—the air freshly scrubbed and shaved, in it the smell of nothing, of crisp linens, of pumpkin and burning leaves, of pine and apples; the warmth of cider or chocolate between chilled hands; the gentle trade of all that was verdant, lush, for the colorful reward of a well-earned rest drawing near—one aspect is loathsome.

It's not the wool sweaters just released from cedar chest captivity and smelling of old men. It's not the daredevil squirrels that taunt my dogs, nor even the cunning fox that lured one to a very early grave beneath our tomato patch, himself escaping the impatient metal crunch of rush hour.

I don't detest the leaves at the state of decay when they begin to require time and effort, nor do I hate the runners sprinting toward their first or 12th or last marathon, bounding past me and my injured goals.

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This is the part where I would talk about being the first runner of the morning, running with my hands out in front of me to knock down all the spider webs. It's where I would talk about the feeling of eww, of wondering whether the spider is crawling on you somewhere. It's where I'd try to weave together some little ditty about freedom, about weaving, about things coming undone and getting stuck.

But I'm stuck, and so this will be preserved here, like a leaf under glass, until it crinkles and disintegrates.

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