A Delicate Dance of Death: Fall in New York
October 15th, 2021
My bleary eyes blink open and in an instant I break into a smile as I’m greeted by a magenta sunrise out my bedroom window. I arrived in New York when the night veiled the autumn beauty I came to see, and this sunrise comes with promises. I climb out of bed.
As I make a cup of coffee and lace up my duck boots, one of three cats I’m watching for my hosts, a white tabby by the name of Patches, snakes his way around my ankles and presses his triangular nose against my shins. I know he is really claiming me as his territory, leaving white whispy hairs all over my black leggings. I give him a little scratch around the whiskers.
Everyone knows what fall is supposed to be like: the air is “crisp” and the leaves are colorful. Having grown up here and transplanted to Texas, I know it is so much more than that. Anticipation buzzes in my fingertips as I turn the hearty metal lock on the front door.
My feet hit the red brick patio and the early fall morning hits my senses. The air is pleasantly cool, pinkening my nose, while the bright morning sun warms my back through my jean jacket—a delightful contradiction. The light catches the tips of cricket-filled dewy grass blades and the free strands of my hair, which moves in a gentle breeze across my brow.
The sky is perfectly clear and filled with echoing bird calls. Beyond the wide-spanning green hills and handsome houses lies a purplish blue horizon spotted with burgundy and orange near the foreground. Beneath tall black tree trunks in the front yard, piles of pale yellow, brown, and orange leaves sleep peacefully. A cluster of flat, tan toadstools poke out from among them.
I let the nutty flavor of Colombian coffee with a hint of cream and sugar linger on my tongue after I sip it. The mug containing it warms my hands as I take a happy step toward the scene. Dried, curled leaves drift silently toward the ground, light as feathers, in a delicate dance of death. They are remarkably fragile underfoot, crackling as I bend and break their thin frames, like the flakes of a croissant.
I stroll slowly, each step releasing the pleasant crunching sound, and close my eyes to take a deep breath. How can I begin to describe the smell of fall? It is like a damp fire—filled with heat and spice and dryness—yet it is accompanied by the moisture of grass and dew and rain. I imagine the scent would match the path to Narnia: a vintage wooden wardrobe full of well-loved sweaters, that somehow contained the freshest outdoor air.
This is what no Hallmark movie or social media post can capture. I snuggle into the scarf that hugs my neck and let autum embrace me. Like the sunrise, these precious morning moments bring a promise: this visit is going to be the perfect slice of fall.
