I saw a gorgeous tree today with green and orange and red leaves, the first full glimpse I’ve had of fall, and it made me want to gouge my eyes out.
I thought, “Not fall, too, God! Not fall!” Because fall is my favorite time of the year with colorful leaves, the promise of a fresh start, new school supplies, pumpkins, sweater weather, and good hair days.
And truthfully, it has probably been my favorite because the other “popular” season, spring, was so brutal for so long. For me, having lost my mom in spring when I was 18, that season meant the pain of audaciously beautiful flowers, Mother’s Day, and Memorial Day— a season which obnoxiously insisted on glowing every year, despite the pain it represented. The fertile promise of spring seemed wasted on me. The pungent smell of soil, which used to entice me, just reminded me of loss.
It wasn’t until 12 years ago, when Jack came along and changed everything, that I was able to reclaim Mother’s Day as a day to rejoice. Mother’s Day? I was now a MOM! What an honor. What a privilege. And over the years, experiencing spring through the eyes of the kids, of buds and blossoms and rain puddles, I was able to enjoy the season again, too. Spring was Jack’s birthday, but was also my rebirth.
But now? Fall sucks. And Back to School? Not ever going to be a time of rejoicing for me, I don’t think.
So what does that leave me with? Summer? In Virginia? With frizzy hair, mosquitoes, humidity, and kids playing in the street late into the night, but not my kid? Of family vacations with one extra space in the room, on the couch, and at the table?
Or winter. Are you kidding me? Don’t even get me started on the short, bleak days, the ice storms, and…Christmas.
So the seasons and the cycles and all the things that make us look forward in anticipation? I’m not feeling it. At least not today. That glorious tree seems like a personal affront.