Autumn makes me crazy, in a prickly, poignant kind of way. Twenty years ago, I would have used the word “aching” to describe how I was feeling about it. Indeed, I likely would have needed a copy editor to point out that I’d used this word ten times in three pages. (Aching-ness tends to get in the way of careful writing.)
Things happen to me, in autumn. Obviously things happen to everyone, all year—but for some reason, autumn things feel different to me. Among them: Giving birth to my first daughter. Sitting by my best friend’s bed as she died. (She was also a first daughter, as am I.) Walking into a bungalow so magical that I bought it without looking at any other houses.
Loss and joy and change, all reflected in the pathetically fallacious mirror of a sky that’s either suddenly golden or sullenly bruised. (To say nothing of those gorgeous, falling leaves.)
This autumn:
My newest U of T class begins on October 4.
A phone call will summon me, if available, to the birth of a friend’s first daughter. (She is, in fact, due on October 4—though first babies often make you wait.)*
That first daughter** of mine turns 12 on October 9.
My book appears on shelves the week of October 10.
Anticipation and memory—such a poignant, prickly, seductive mess.
*Baby Penelope decided to arrive right on time: Oct. 4 at 4:45 p.m. I stumbled from the hospital (where I’d spent a night and a day) to the university an hour later. I’m fairly sure it was a class of questionable quality. On the up side, though: baby Penelope is here! Safe and sound.
**Though I’ve made repeated mention of them, I in no way mean to imply that first daughters are better than subsequent ones.
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