It’s finally fall around here. The radiators are on. Leaves are falling. Not too much color yet around our house, but we have high hopes for all the Japanese maples along the side of our driveway and beside the porch. Piles of leaves are appearing by the roadside, but it’s been too wet and rainy to do any good fall crunching-walks. Soon, I hope. Fall in the suburbs promises to be lovely, if the ground ever dries up.
This time last year, I’d been in the hospital for a week and was facing down two more. I watched October from my antiseptic perch above West 59th Street; the only fall-blue sky I saw was whatever peeked between skyscrapers. I got to see tiny, bundled-up Lucia only a few times each week. I watched a lot of TV episodes online. I read all the Twilight books. I spent all day in bed, just me and kicking, rolling Greta in my belly. That was last October. The pumpkins we picked on the day I was admitted to the hospital got moldy before I came home.
Now, a year later, we’re in our very own house in a brand-new town, with wonderful New Hampshire pumpkins lining our front steps. We’ve been mentally preparing for our first major renovation in the winter (a bathroom), though I’m now pushing to wait and save our money for an even more major renovation in the summer (a kitchen). We are still rattling around this house a bit—but the feeling of having space, including drafty empty rooms, makes this fall seem more mysterious and moody than other falls. It will be lovely once the rain stops and we can play outside, bundled in sweaters, running through leaves, perhaps wearing princess skirts.