I grew up with palm trees overhead and flip-flops on my feet every single Christmas. Florida doesn’t exactly celebrate “the changing of the seasons,” which might explain why I will pull the car over just to get a picture of the leaves changing and clap my hands at the first snowfall.
For eighteen years, I experienced summer year-round. This has its perks of course, but it also means that when we say our final goodbye to summer and fall arrives in the south sometime mid-November, I become “that girl.”
The one who gushes over hues of red and maroon, school bus yellow and bright orange. The girl putting on a scarf every morning, stirring soup on the stove in the afternoon, and lighting a pumpkin or cinnamon candle in the evening.
It isn’t perfect and life is still, well, life, but something inside comes alive as the calendar pages turn, the temperature drops, and the leaves shine.
What’s normal to others feels like magic to me, shimmering like a filter and covering everything from the laughter of children to the delicious smell that greets you when the coffee shop door opens.
But the reality is, it won’t last forever.