Every fall is like this.
On the first day, I step outside, and everything is different. The air is cooler, slightly. There’s a rich, nose-tingling scent of dried leaves.
If I took a pocket knife and cut through branches, I would see the cambium—green veins still carrying life.
Expectations say that the day must be perfect. Any hint of anxiety is a failure that will ruin the day–and your memories of that day, and your expectations for that day next year–forever. Not eating, escaping to be alone, or missing out on any family tradition is devastating.