I love fall.
I associate it with piles and piles of musty leaves strewn across uncut lawn, with old-fashioned multi-panel windows with white paint and plaster separating panes of glass, with pumpkins and white sheet ghosts and wind, and with memory and identity and love.
I wish I could simply fall into a giant pile of pumpkins and leaves and lay there for days and days and days until the stench of sweat and unbathing threatens to spontaneously combust.
I wish I could eat a hundred turkeys until I become the icon for turkey genocide.
I wish I could play pavement football with the crowd I used to play with in fifth grade until all of us were covered from head to foot in blood and sweat.
I wish I could spend the season teaching my own children how to winterize an Ethan Allen house.
I don’t have any children.
I haven’t played pavement football in decades.
I live in New York.
I don’t give a shit.
Fall is a state of mind, much more than it is a season.