I sat in the car tonight and let the lights pass me slowly on the cobbly brick roads. I clenched my fists so tight and thought about how fall is so hard. And how it shouldn’t be hard.
You want it so badly. You count down the days, watch the temperature drop, looking longingly at sweaters and tall worn brown boots. The leaves turn different colors and for a moment you’re happy. The fiery reds and intoxicating oranges—these are the colors you wanted.
But the wind blows, revealing barren branches. And it gets even colder. And suddenly fall is very very hard.
Tonight, with those clenched fists, I wondered why it couldn’t be easier. How all I wanted to do was bake an apple pie with a white cheddar crust and smell the aroma throughout my tiny apartment. I’d breath deep that cinnamon apple smell and feel so happy.
But instead, there is wine. Wine and words. These are the lessons that I need to learn. That sometimes fall is hard. And that’s okay. Someday it won’t be this hard.
And there will be pie.