What Autumn Brings
Two years ago, before the virus forced me to acknowledge the parts of reality that I preferred to ignore, the wagon ride was different than now. In place of the bustling orchid rubbing directly against the woods was a winding corn maze closer to the street, isolated. Not only that, but the tractor’s engine may be louder now than it had been, yet it’s possible that the greater roar is the internal result of the noises in my own head. However, at its core, the current wagon ride still holds all of the greatest attributes of the attraction. Like before, the tractor bubbling along at the edge of the hill provides a complete view of the farmland below if you peer through the woods’ tree line. Every leaf in sight is a shade of orange, yellow or brown, an accomplishment that won’t be obtained by the rest of the world for a few more weeks or so. The classic autumn breeze kisses my cheeks and brushes my hair.
This is the only place where I’ve ever known peace.
For that very reason, a younger me would fantasize about running away to these woods for the autumn months. The fallen leaves would be my blanket. Stolen apple cider donuts and bags of chips from the farm below would be my food. I could send letters to my family without a return address, so I wouldn’t have to let them go, but they wouldn’t be able to bring me back to civilization either. I’d fill my days with climbing trees, jumping in leaves and enjoying all the beautiful elements of the woods in fall.
It was the errored logistics of a young, happy dreamer. My contemporary fantasies about these woods are from the perspective of a hopeless, teenage pessimist.
The dream of living amongst the woods was naïve.
Now it seems more practical to simply die here.
Like so many others, the virus and its subsequent quarantine changed me. Perhaps you
may say I grew colder, or you may argue that I only grew more aware. Regardless of what shifted in my mind, as the wagon full of strangers bumbles along the worn pathway, I see all the beauty that came with the touch of autumn, same as years prior, yet I’m painfully aware that this kind of peace only exists in this very space. Away from here, there is only war, literally and metaphorically, domestic and foreign, war between bodies and also between hearts, and these will wage endlessly. When I would dream about running away to live here, I ignored the fact that I would eventually abandon these woods and return to the self-constructed evils of society. Meanwhile, if I were to settle into a pile of fallen leaves in the surreal bubble and let myself fade away to a place beyond tangibility, the world outside these woods would never touch me in life. I would never meet pain, ache or grief again, for I would never be close to them.
Eventually the tractor glides back down the woodsy hill. The flat farmland covered with flowers, orchids and pumpkins engulfs us as we creep closer to the drop off point. All I’ve thought about was the result of being left alone with my thoughts for ten minutes. I’ll have forgotten all I’ve theorized and contemplated by the time the current yellow, red and orange leaves completely shrivel and fall off with the approach of the winter months.
But these thoughts will always be tucked away in some crevice of my mind.
I wonder if they’ll reemerge when the temperature chills and the leaves alter again next year.