As a child, I remember hopping from one crunchy leaf to the next on my morning walks to the bus stop, smiling as I listen to the sound of them crumbling beneath my sneakers. Autumn was always a resplendent season swollen with visual and tactile delights back in Michigan. After a particularly suffocating summer of incorrigible humidity and heat, it even felt like a nice reward; a welcomed respite.
Now, autumn as an adult in the Pacific Northwest feels a bit more muted. Maybe because I now have a yard to rake, which I recall being more fun as a kid accomplice rather than as a responsible grown up who sighs whenever strong winds prevail. The leaves aren’t as crunchy, either, since the frequently damp pavement vitiates my game of crunchy-leaf-hopscotch.
It has been nearly five years for me out here, and I won’t be finding the autumns of my Michigan-past. But the new colors and temperate climate remind me that, even as the year comes to an end, I’m still making room for new beginnings.