Yankee Autumn

In autumn, you don't even mind taking out the trash. Gives you a chance to open up the front door and walk out to the curb in your slippers. Crunch some leaves and say something sage or theatrical or ridiculous out loud, like "Thus began the fall of our internment," your breath clouding out and condensating in front of you. You don't run the risk of getting frostbitten, so you can pause as you take out the trash, nod to your neighbor and say hey to his dog Chuck who revels in the distraction of rustling leaves and deranged squirrels. When you're on trash detail on a crisp night in autumn, you take a deep lung-heaving breath and you barely smell the trash that you're dragging out to the curb because you are filled with the smell of Autumn Soup - a combination of simmering leaves and rotting pumpkins, football, fleece, fireplaces and antique books, candy corn, jeans with the ends of the legs shredded from wear, and holding hands between the interludes of sidewalks lit by streetlights and cast by the shadows of weeping willows. You leave the trash at the curb, and then you run run run inside. You sit on the edge of the futon in your slippers and think about being eleven years-old in the autumn when you didn't know what the word internment meant. You remember yourself being almost as still on a night much like this night, replete with similar imagery, void of the same adult burdens, until, of course, your mother reminded you all cozy in your slippers that you still had to take out the stupid trash.