In the past two days, the air has felt different. It's taken me eight years of living in Washington to discern what it means. I look outside my window for confirmation and see that there are indeed red leaves peppering my companion tree. It's the descent into fall.
I cannot describe it truly, but it feels a bit like melancholy. I could say that the air is crisp like a pumpkin-flavored La Croix, but it doesn't encapsulate the FEELING of it. I could merely say, "It feels different compared to summer, which is why I am uncomfortable." Still my heart knows it's not being conveyed properly.
And now painted under the wretched veil of 2020, fall feels extra bummer this year. In addition to staying home, we're also about to be staying home and being cold. I have to put a sweater on. It keeps me warm, and I use the sleeves to wipe my tears from crying about being cold. Then my sleeves get damp, so I have to wring them out.
Remember the season before this, when it was warm and things were better? I do. I'll never forget.