As I paint pumpkins in the basement of my house, as my husband texts me that our pizza is ready, as Mama calls to ask if we are doing brunch tomorrow– I think of Octobers spent with you in steaming South Florida pumpkin patches. We lifted up one of the pumpkins and realized that dirt was made to look like the pumpkins grew there, but they actually were brought in on a truck from somewhere else. My Wyoming and your Illinois hearts sunk. But we still bought pumpkins and we ate pumpkin ravioli from the “pumpkin patch” for dinner that night. I can still see your chestnut stare through the steam of the boiling water in your tiny condo’s kitchen. I can still taste the fresh pasta and feel the heat of the stove overwhelming my porcelain skin. In that moment, I thought that you were my entire world.
As I paint pumpkins in the basement of my house, as my husband texts me that our pizza is ready, as Mama calls to ask if we are doing brunch tomorrow– I am disappearing into a fall where handmade wool scarves are being left on brown leather couches, chilly hands are being held across the car consul, that great pumpkin is being picked out, apples and cream brandy is flowing, charcuterie boards prepped every Sunday for football games.
And I wonder, did I love you, or did I love the fall?