Waltz

What is it about fall?

     I sit in my room before the computer. There’s work to be done, so much work, but it’s September now. September, the time of year when schedules change and time slows down. The crowded shopping centers empty out. The children who play in streets move back into classrooms. The sticky, humid days of summer start to evaporate in favor of a cooler wind that starts to blow.

     The wind is strong today. I glance outside. Through the window, I can see branches gently bob up and down with the air currents. The leaves rustle; the wind travels in between and they make a melody. An echoing effect creates a soundtrack for the day.

     The window is slightly open. It’s chilly, but I needed a taste of the outside world. As I type response papers, the wind teases my skin. It tickles my bare arms, tries to lure me outside so we can dance together.

     I shut my window. The simple taste of the season only makes me realize how hungry I am for it. I close my blinds. It’s unfair to look at something so natural through an invisible barrier.

     I save my paper and make a mental note to print it, along with the others, later in the evening. I pick up Taming of the Shrew and open to the first page. I try to focus on the Shakespearean language, mentally attempting to translate each line into something more modern. I’ll pheeze you, in faith. / A pair of stocks, you rouge! / Y’ are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronciles; we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore paucas pallabris; let the world slide: sessa! I stare at the page, blinking every few seconds. I think of that scene in Office Space when Ron Livingston says human beings weren’t meant to sit in cubicles all day, staring at computer screens.

     The wind raps against the glass. I open the blinds and peer outside. The trees are still dancing to the music. I give up.

     I slide my feet into my sneakers. I tie my shoes together and put on my blue hoodie. No, no, this one won’t be warm enough. I take it off and replace it with my black one instead. Today’s weather requires a little more warmth. I leave my bedroom and walk downstairs. I open the front door and let a wave of cool air splash against my face. Relief penetrates my skin and immediately spreads throughout my body. It’s invigorating, intoxicating.

     Today’s forecast is cloudy, high 52. Although the weather constantly changes during the season, I feel this forecast is an appropriate summary of fall. The sky hides behind a mask, straddling a middle ground between happiness and despair. The sun will never shine for more than a few days in a row, nor will it completely give in to an extended period of rain. It wears its grey, leaving me to guess how it feels.

     I take my first steps, sensing the cold concrete through the soles of my shoes. I breathe deeply; the fresh air makes me lightheaded. I walk down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. As I head uphill, I take in the sights. Cars are absent from their driveways. People seem to have vanished from the block. All that remains is the music and the trees with their hypnotic dance.

     That’s what happens in the fall. Everyone disappears. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy the outdoors most at this time of year. It creates a very reflective state of mind. The feelings of isolation are both comforting and concerning.

     I turn the corner and continue down the road. I look both ways before crossing the street. As expected, there are no oncoming vehicles. I make my way toward the nearby park. There’s a driveway-like entrance leading into it, but there’s virtually nothing there, a huge field whose main feature is a basketball court and swing set. There used to be a jungle gym, but the township recently tore it down.

     No kids here, but that’s to be expected at 1 pm on a Monday. Well, to be honest, no one comes here anyway. Occasionally a group of teenagers will use the court, but this park is abandoned.

     So why does it feel lonely now? Why does the fall do this, invoke this sensation of comfort in solitude? The park has always been empty, and realistically, how many people are usually outside in the middle of the work day to begin with? People leave their homes all year long, so what makes fall special?

     The dirt and leaves crunch beneath my feet as I take a path through the woods. The sky and its mask disappear behind a canopy of trees. I delve deeper, shuffling through a blanket of fallen leaves. Swish, swish, swish, swish.

     It’s because I’ve been trained to believe that a certain “fall” of times occurs at this time of year. We spend so much time as children looking forward to summer. We dream of jumping into pools, the water cradling us as we see friends outside of the classroom on a regular basis. We stay up late, watching reruns on Nick at Nite and playing old video games from previous summers. We sleep in because we have no responsibilities outside of a chore list our mothers and fathers leave us. We jump on our bikes and tour the town, as far as we can make it. We lie around the house, free from desks, lectures, homework, bullies, and authority.

     Then on September 1, we panic. Well, I panicked, at least. School would start in a few days, and the children’s utopia will be locked away until the following summer. I have to admit, as fun as summers were, the heat always bothered me. The sun blazed down on my face. My skin would become moist with sweat. My clothes would stick to me like used Colorforms. The fall brought a more preferable set of features to my life: the air was cooler, and the wind sailed through our streets more often; the trees were painted not just with greens, but with yellows, oranges, and reds, creating surreal pieces of art within nature that could only be viewed live for a month or two.

     Swish, swish, swish, swish go the leaves. Surreal, indeed. Fall is so unique in this way, when bits of nature start unraveling and begin speaking. I stop and pick a leaf up; it’s in that middle state of freshly fallen and drying out. But when I hold it, its soothing chill runs through my body, triggering nostalgia. It’s natural, but so bizarre. It’s the only time of year when the earth truly begins communicating.

     But how do we listen when we go back to the classrooms, the teachers, the assignments, everything that prevents us from being near it? We can only sit at desks, stealing glances through the windows, or tasting the air as we disembark the bus. We need to come home right away and do our homework, because it will get dark earlier and our parents won’t be pleased that it’s not done by nightfall.

     The season is almost like a dream, we just experience bits and pieces in the midst of our routines. We become so accustomed to it being out of reach that it’s like an incredible woman, always unavailable. We can dream, we can fantasize, we can honestly say we love it because we’ve had small tastes, but we will never truly know it.

     Or perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps I’m too intimidated by the life my childhood school days created for me. I’ve grown; I don’t have a curfew, nor do I fear other students or teachers, so what’s left to keep me feeling so uncomfortable in this season? Even now, when I’m swishing through the leaves, dancing with the trees as they rustle in rhythm with the wind, literally right here with the season, why do I still feel like there’s an ominous presence looming over me?

     I step out of the woods, back onto the empty field. I stand there, letting the wind caress me, as I stare out at the remains of a childhood memory. Being outside during fall is like staring at old photographs. Everything is faded; you look at solitary objects standing long after the events and people that experienced it with you have left. The cool air has that kind of influence over the mind.

     Maybe it’s just natural. Everyone looks forward to spring, when it starts getting warmer and life begins to bloom again. Summer is when we tend to concentrate on the freedoms we can only experience then, like beaches and staying out late. Winter entices us with snow and the holidays, and when that gets old everyone bonds by complaining about the cold. Fall, well… fall’s that last defense before nature dies. Before the trees wither, before the temperature becomes too low to tolerate, before the sun stops letting us enjoy any of the afternoon… fall is the last stronghold. And it’s beautiful, tragic; its passion comes to the surface before finally submitting to defeat.

     I’ve been out for 15 minutes. I feel guilty, yet I collapse onto the field and stretch. I glance to the side and hear the wind surfing on the grass, the blades swaying with each wave. I breathe deep. I feel guilty, but am somewhat fine with this. I breathe deeper. Intoxicating.

 

Author's Note

My nonfiction professor said one of my pieces was like a kisetsukan story, which she explained as a type of Japanese story that gives a seasonal feeling. I rewrote it and came up with this, hopefully it turned out well!