As I prepare to store away the summer box, a clear plastic container that tucks neatly into the top of our Ikea wardrobe, I can’t help but reminisce. The wardrobe, along with its fresh contents—scarves and sweaters that have just been freed from their plastic confinement—radiates the same neatness it had on the day my partner assembled it. We moved here just two springs ago, and as the leaves turn, I find myself reflecting on how autumn heralds a fresh start. The school year begins, and the crisp air draws people back into the city, filling local pubs and restaurants, and awakening our wardrobes with corduroys and cozy sweaters.
Having moved from Los Angeles, I see New York City as a vibrant canvas painted with the yellows and reds of fall, reminiscent of a classic Woody Allen film. It brings back memories of my freshman year at Columbia, where I first donned a cable-knit sweater, feeling the thrill of football season, the shorter days, and the glow of candles illuminating the city streets, one by one, as the trees and lampposts twinkled with bright white lights. It was a time filled with midterms, finals, and visits to friends upstate, all while envying classmates with their sleek J.Crew boots.
However, this autumn feels different. For many, the chill in the air and the waning daylight symbolize loss. Poets often invoke this season to express the shadows of their minds, a descent into darkness that reflects our deepest fears. My mother is unwell, and I can no longer pretend otherwise.
Her battle began with a stroke at the young age of 68, likely a tragic consequence of a medication that should never have been prescribed. That November in 2009 was particularly poignant; my mother’s favorite season turned bittersweet as she lay in the ICU while I dined on cold turkey at the hospital cafeteria.
During that Thanksgiving, my partner was with his family in Philadelphia, but I stayed by my mother’s side. Even though she sometimes didn’t recognize me, she found comfort in familiar poetry, grasping at memories amidst her confusion. I promised her that once she regained her strength, we would visit the origami holiday tree at the Museum of Natural History and skate at Rockefeller Center, where she had once dazzled audiences in her youth. I tried to remind her of the autumn she adored—the dark, cold nights she relished, the rustling leaves that symbolized excitement and potential, not endings. She thrived in dreary weather, embodying a Morticia Addams-like enthusiasm for the cold.
But now, she doesn’t realize it’s fall. Once again, she’s in the hospital, enduring panic attacks. Today, I pleaded with the doctor to ease her discomfort. Finally, I believe her prescription for Xanax was granted.
This November also marks my daughter’s third birthday. After two and a half years of relative harmony, I now face a challenge every parent encounters: disequilibrium. Experts suggest that children oscillate between periods of stability and upheaval. My daughter has recently embraced foot-stamping, testing boundaries, and a stubborn focus on what she cannot have—traits not exclusive to toddlers.
I adore my child. She bears an uncanny resemblance to my mother in her baby photos, with a radiant glow that lights up her surroundings. When I put her down on the street, she bolts into the crowd with a speed I thought only existed in cartoons. My mother often recounted similar stories, recalling how my grandmother would frantically chase after her as a toddler, which is why she was gifted figure skates at just four years old.
While my initial phase of harmony with my daughter may have shifted, I know we’ll navigate many more seasons together. I remain hopeful that our bond will mirror the deep trust I shared with my mother, free of major secrets or rebellions.
Yet, my relationship with my mother feels like a chapter closed. While she’s still alive, our interactions have transformed into a routine of care. I do my best to stay connected through visits and calls, and at times, my partner goes to her apartment just to hold her hand and provide comfort. She no longer picks out clothes for me or remembers what I looked like in them. She may forget my daughter’s name, yet she delights in her voice, often expressing a desire to see her, only for me to remind her that we visited just yesterday.
Winter has become a constant for my mother. There will be no more springs or falls, even if she lives for many more years. I mourn the relationship we once had, looking through old photos, while I hold my daughter closer, reading her more bedtime stories than ever. I embrace the chaos of her late nights, her paper chains with her father, and her whimsical outfits, whether it’s a nightgown with rain boots at the bookstore.
This is just one of many seasons with my daughter. Regardless of the turbulent moments, we are together, cognizant of our identity as mother and child, sharing the same home and experiences. Life is good with my little family.
I yearn to share this world with my mother. I wish she could recall a park outing or reminisce about my childhood, but she cannot. I remind myself to focus on the present and the beauty that surrounds us, especially as I strive to instill in my daughter an appreciation for what she has and the joy of autumn, a season that begins on her father’s birthday, coinciding with the autumn equinox. I refuse to let the dark winds of this year overshadow our autumn celebration. It’s time to embrace the season, turn up the music, and dance with my daughter and partner. And when my mother is with us, we will dance together, too.
In her absence, I will ensure that autumn remains a time of joy. I’ll tell my daughter, “This season was one of your grandmother’s greatest joys. It all begins now—decorative window displays, school supplies, fall clothing, festive gatherings, twinkling lights, and warm scarves for those chilly evening walks. This was your grandmother’s gift to me, and now, I pass it on to you.”
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In summary, while I navigate the bittersweet complexities of autumn, I strive to honor my mother’s legacy while creating cherished memories with my daughter, all under the vibrant hues of this beloved season.
Keyphrase: Autumn reflections on motherhood and legacy
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