Today, I am organizing the seasonal storage. A clear plastic bin slides effortlessly into the top of our Ikea wardrobe. The wardrobe, along with its contents—the scarves and sweaters just liberated from their plastic confinement—appears as pristine as the day my partner put it together. We relocated here only two years ago, in spring. While spring signifies the awakening of buds and the greening of trees, autumn represents a fresh start: the return of students, cooler breezes, and the bustling life of the city, as people dive back into their routines, retrieving their cozy attire for the months ahead.
As a newcomer from Los Angeles, I have always envisioned New York City as a cinematic realm reminiscent of a Woody Allen film, filled with vibrant fall colors and drizzly days spent tucked away in old cinemas. It conjures memories of my freshman year at university and the first time I donned a cable knit sweater. Autumn brings with it the excitement of football games, shorter days illuminated by candles, and a bittersweet sense of nostalgia, as the city transforms with twinkling lights adorning trees and lampposts. It’s a season filled with midterms, trips to friends’ homes upstate, and the vivid envy for those effortlessly chic boots from J.Crew.
However, this autumn feels different. For many, the chill and dimming light of the season symbolize a somber reality. Poets often use autumn as a metaphor for the lurking shadows of their thoughts—a creeping darkness that reflects both named and nameless fears.
My mother has been unwell. I can no longer pretend otherwise.
She has battled illness for some time, if we consider dementia an illness. A stroke at the young age of 68—likely caused by an inappropriate medication—struck her in November 2009. Autumn, her beloved season, found her in the ICU while I dined on unappetizing hospital food.
On Thanksgiving that year, my partner was with his family, but I stayed by my mother’s side, despite her inability to recognize me. She was frightened, yet familiar poetry comforted her during those moments of confusion. Occasionally, she would grasp that I was her child, and my pregnant sister, seated beside me, also provided solace as we held her hand.
I promised my mother that once she recovered, we would visit the origami holiday tree at the Museum of Natural History and skate at Rockefeller Center, where she once performed as a young woman. I reassured her that autumn awaited her: the crisp evenings she adored, the crunching leaves that sparked her enthusiasm rather than despair. My mother thrived in dreary weather; the colder and darker it was, the more alive she felt.
This year, however, she is unaware that autumn has arrived. She is back in the hospital, having faced numerous health challenges this past year. Panic attacks have begun to plague her, and I pleaded with the doctor to ease her discomfort. Today, I finally received the assurance that medication would be provided.
My daughter will turn three this November. After a harmonious two and a half years, I now confront what every parent eventually faces: a period of disequilibrium, as experts call it. I’ve observed for the first time my daughter testing boundaries, a phase often seen in small children, characterized by foot-stamping and an inability to appreciate her privileges.
I adore my daughter deeply. Her expressions and the glow reminiscent of my mother’s baby photos warm my heart. She is a bundle of energy, darting into the crowd with a speed that seems cartoonish. My mother often recounted how she was the same way, much to my grandmother’s chagrin.
Our previous season of harmony has come to a close, but I remain hopeful that many more will follow. I trust that, as my daughter matures, we will build a relationship grounded in understanding and love, much like the one I had with my mother.
However, my relationship with my mother has changed. While she is still physically present, our interactions now revolve around maintenance rather than connection. I strive to support her during our visits and phone calls, often reminding her of recent moments shared with my daughter, who she delights in hearing about, even if she can’t recall her name.
For my mother, it seems to be an endless winter now. There will be no more springs or falls, even if she lives for another decade. I grieve for what was, cherishing old photographs while I hold my daughter close, reading her extra bedtime stories. I don’t mind if her bedtime stretches or if she wants to wear her nightgown and rain boots to the bookstore.
This is just one of the many seasons I will share with my daughter. Regardless of the challenges, we are together. We recognize each other, remember our shared experiences, and find joy in our time together as a family.
I wish I could share this vibrant world with my mother. I wish she could recall days spent at the park or the joy of my childhood. But I cannot dwell on what is lost. Instead, I aim to instill in my daughter an appreciation for all that she has and to revel in the beauty of autumn—a season that begins just as her father celebrates his birthday.
I refuse to hand over this autumn to the somber winds that swirl around me this year. This is my season, as it was my mother’s. It is time to celebrate, to fill our home with music, and to dance with my partner and my daughter, and when she is able, with my mother.
In the future, when my mother is no longer with us, it will be vital to preserve autumn as a time of joy. I will tell my daughter: “This was one of your grandmother’s greatest joys, this season. It all begins now: the twinkling lights, the school supplies, the festive gatherings, the cozy scarves that shield us from the chill on our evening strolls.”
This was your grandmother’s legacy. She passed it to me. And now, I pass it to you.
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In conclusion, embracing the changing seasons of life is essential. While we honor our past, we must also cherish the present and look forward to the future, weaving memories and traditions that will last a lifetime.
Keyphrase: autumn reflection and change
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