These Seasons

by a psychopath in a crop top (aka Vernonika)

Fall is far too nostalgic for me. In the spring, there is new life and new plans. Adventures to be dreamt of then written out. Summer and winter were made wholly for the present. Summer brings sprinklers and pool parties. Camping trips with too many s’mores. In winter, the anticipation of the holidays keeps small children awake. And the hot chocolate is a little too warm. Quiet snow fills the silence belonging to string lights.

Fall was made for the past. Something about the sideways lighting always reminds me of football games and patchy grass. Something about the vague chill in the air brings me back To bus rides and dance parties, Sweatpants that ran a little too big.

Every September, I begin to hear flapping pages From Harry Potter books that I hid in my room, And every October I feel the need to go sweater shopping with my mother. I only drink coffee when we are together.

Every November I think about a younger version of my brother. A drum set and some plastic tubs still sit in a corner of his room. Well, I suppose it’s not his room anymore. Every fall, all the things I pushed into the filing cabinet of my mind, Slowly fall out onto the floor again.

Gliding slowly, replaying and turning over. And every fall I pick them up again, sort them, And hope that I don’t lose a single one.