Today, I’m sorting through our summer box, a clear plastic container that snugly fits atop our Ikea wardrobe. It’s a neat space, just like the fresh scarves and comfy sweaters that have finally emerged from their plastic confinement. We settled into this home two years ago, in the heart of spring. While spring embodies budding life and fresh greenery, autumn brings its own kind of renewal. The crisp air and the return of school draw people back to the city, filling local pubs and restaurants, and reviving the cozy wardrobes filled with corduroys and sweatshirts.
As a transplant from Los Angeles, New York City will forever feel like a vibrant film set—think Woody Allen movies with bright leaves and rainy strolls past vintage cinemas. I remember my first autumn at Columbia, donning my first cable-knit sweater. It’s a season of football games, shorter days, flickering candles, and that bittersweet feeling of homesickness as the city lights up, trees and lampposts adorned with bright white bulbs. It’s all about midterms, trips to friends’ places upstate, and wishing I had those sleek J.Crew boots that everyone else seemed to have.
However, this autumn feels different. For many, the chill in the air and the fading daylight can symbolize loss. Poets often evoke this season to express their fears and the unseen shadows that linger in the corners of our minds.
My mother is unwell. I can no longer pretend otherwise. She’s been battling dementia, a cruel illness that began after she suffered a stroke at just 68, likely caused by a medication that should never have been prescribed. That fateful November in 2009, while she lay in the ICU, I found myself in the hospital cafeteria, eating cold turkey served with boxed gravy.
Thanksgiving that year was surreal. My husband was with his family in Philadelphia, but I couldn’t leave my mother’s side, even if she didn’t recognize me. At times, she would look at me and sense our bond, knowing I was her child, even while confusion clouded her mind. I promised her that once she regained her strength, we’d experience the magic of the origami holiday tree at the Museum of Natural History and skate at Rockefeller Center, where she dazzled audiences in her youth. Autumn was her favorite, a time that symbolized thrill rather than despair.
This year, my mother doesn’t even know it’s fall. She’s back in the hospital after numerous visits in the past year, now suffering from panic attacks. I pleaded with the doctor for something to help ease her discomfort, and thankfully, a prescription for Xanax was finally granted.
Meanwhile, my daughter is about to turn 3 this November. After two and a half years of peaceful parenting, I’m now facing the inevitable ups and downs—what experts call disequilibrium. She’s testing boundaries, throwing fits, and sometimes acting like the world revolves around her, which is, of course, a universal trait of toddlers.
Despite the challenges, my love for her is immense. She has a spark in her eyes reminiscent of my mother’s childhood photos. I watch as she dashes into the crowd, a blur of energy that my mother once described of herself as a child. I know my daughter will grow, and while our current challenges may seem tough, I believe we’ll find a new rhythm as she matures.
My relationship with my mother has shifted drastically; it’s now more about maintaining her comfort than the deep connection we once shared. She may no longer recognize my face or my daughter’s name, but I cling to the joy of those fleeting moments when she responds to the sounds of laughter around her.
It feels like winter in my mother’s world now, where spring and autumn are but memories. I grieve, I reminisce, and I hold my daughter tightly as we share stories and read extra books before bedtime. It doesn’t matter if she stays up late or wears mismatched outfits to the bookstore; it’s one of many beautiful seasons of her childhood. We cherish our time together, filled with joy and curiosity about the world.
I wish I could share this vibrant life with my mother. I want her to experience the joy of a day at the park, to remember the warmth of family gatherings. But I can’t dwell on what isn’t possible. As I guide my toddler to appreciate the beauty of the season that begins with her father’s birthday and the autumn equinox, I must show her that autumn is ours to embrace.
So, let’s turn up the music, light the candles, and dance together as a family. When my mother’s time comes, it will be essential to celebrate autumn as a season of joy and love. I will tell my daughter, “This was your grandmother’s favorite time of year. It all begins now—decorative windows, school supplies, warm clothes, holiday gatherings, and twinkling lights. This joy was passed down from her to me, and now, it’s yours.”
To read more about navigating these emotional seasons, you can check out this helpful article on dealing with family health issues. And if you are on a journey of your own, consider exploring fertility resources at Fertility Booster for Men and IVF.
Summary
This reflective piece captures the essence of autumn as a time of change and emotional weight. The author explores the contrast between the vibrant memories of fall with her mother and the challenges of her mother’s illness. As the seasons transition, the author embraces joy in her daughter’s life while honoring her mother’s legacy. Through shared experiences and seasonal celebrations, the author aims to pass down the beauty of autumn to future generations.