The light is already achieving a diffusive quality as if it travels through treacle. The blurred edges take the sting out of the afternoon. The glow is real, the halo behind our heads proof of that.

The promise of winter, the pledge of cold- my favourite time of the year is here. Already, the leaves begin to fade- the colours are getting lighter, the brown seeping from the corners and tips into their very heart. Should I mourn their impending death? Or should I celebrate the life lived?

Soon the winter sweaters, shawls, hoodies, blankets with their beige and grey undertones will dry out in the reluctant light of the sun. Air them, fold them, wear them. A cycle punctuated with hot soups in vibrant greens and deep reds, steaming coffee with its foamy swirls, and all the ways in which we will cuddle- with our books and our pets and our kids. With our own selves.

Even the air smells different. Neither the stinging dryness of the summer nor the damp socksy-smell of the monsoon, no, no, no- autumn smells of cinnamon and vanilla. The very air is a promise of good fortune and change. The atmosphere urging us to slow down, to stay in and watch old movies, chime in the dialogues so imprinted on our minds. Of taking afternoon walks, holding hands the fingers entwined, the palms rubbing our fortunes together, melding them.

Autumn is nature romancing us. Showing us how to live- slow, easy, light, temporal. Are we listening?

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