Say the word autumn, and I will remember many things. Say the word autumn, and my mind will leap to many days and many nights when the air was starting to chill, when the wind began to turn your breath into silver vapor in the air and the wind made cheeks turn pink and eyes glow bright, and when the trees pulled together one final display of brilliant color before becoming skeletal silhouettes in a barren winter landscape.

Say the word autumn and I hear the cries of the geese slowly, gracefully making their way south across the sky, an arctic wind spurring them to go faster, to beat the chill. I see their dark shapes, wings beating, against the dying sun and remember that cry, punctuating the end of summer and the end of flip-flops and freedom, and introducing this new season of shorter days and darker nights.
Say the word autumn and I smell wood smoke, that thick, comforting smell drifting across the land from someone’s crackling hearth and I almost feel its warmth as the smell wraps itself around me. I smell the smoke and I can picture their crackling fire, and it reminds me of times when there were dancing flames in my own fireplace, and it reminds me of togetherness. I smell the smoke and I’m home.
Say the word autumn and I see gold and red and orange and yellow, setting the trees aflame, painting the world. I see the colors and again I am struck by their beauty, by the brilliance of their vivid hues. I see the land, awash in color from these gifts of the trees, and everything looks more beautiful, more radiant.
Say the word autumn, and I see a harvest moon, a huge golden orb hanging low in the dark night sky, lighting up the night. I see the moon and its shining face and I can remember standing there imagining, thinking that if something as perfect as a full moon is possible, then anything is.
Say the word autumn and I will think of all these things and all these moments, but most of all I will think of carving pumpkins in the warm kitchen as a child, my father’s big hand curled protectively around my small one, helping me carve a crooked, imperfect face that looked to me like the most perfect thing in the world. I see us all there in the kitchen, my family around me, and I feel them lifting me out of the orange pumpkin goo and seeds and carrying me out to the front step to see the jack-o-lanterns, illuminated with flickering candlelight. I see us out on the front step looking at the pumpkins, smelling the wood smoke, and seeing a harvest moon hanging low. I see us listening to the cries of the geese and looking at the trees turned to gold and red and yellow and orange, and the world is painted, and the world is beautiful, and the world is radiant.