It’s a beautiful fall season this year. Some would call it even “ideal.” The tree leaves are turning slowly into sunset colors and on breezy days fill the air with fragrance and movement. The gardens continue to bear delicious fruit and astounding flowers.
I mean, it is sickening how pretty fall can be here in the Boston suburbs. And yet I find myself sighing with a sense of longing. When I lived in Bucharest, a hundred years ago, I used to dislike fall, to put it mildly. It was gray, wet, dark, stormy, and so very depressing. And look at me now, in the middle of splendor, missing like crazy the gray of the city. It’s surreal to live like this, dumbfounded by fall beauty. It’s all I could have dreamed of. And I cannot be compelled to like it. I would prefer gray to red right now, thank you very much. Take the happy streaks of sunlight piercing through flaming maple branches and give me gloomy cement towers blurring behind curtains of pestering droplets of rain!
Nope! Nothing changed. The world outside my window is still poured in gold and honey. I’m going to throw up. What have I done to deserve this?!