Leaves

I am not, as a rule, an Autumn Man. I am a Spring Dude. I love spring in North Carolina. Just before it gets hot, the new leaves a pale green which filters the sunlight and makes everything shimmer. Those cool mornings and breezy afternoons. But something strange happens to my brain in autumn and, it's seemed, only autumn.

I remember a lot of things when the weather finally turns. I get a little contemplative, a little wistful. The strangeness is that my memories of things long past take on a multisensory dimension in, and only in, autumn. I remember things inside my head which come with smells, touch, tastes. I don't really know why. I can remember things year round but without the depth that comes with the chill outside, high sun, and falling leaves.

They're snippets. Many of them are stupid or trivial, but they come roaring back with such force that it will sometimes snap me awake when I'm drifting off because I'm momentarily there, in all the fullness that implies. But only in autumn. Never any other time.

I can close my eyes and I'm young, driving to Boone to spend the weekend with my now wife, the car window down and the smell of Marlboros lingering. I can feel the warmth as we huddle under her blanket to stay warm, skin on skin, our heats touching.

I smell Thanksgiving at my grandmother's in Raleigh, aunts and uncles drifting in, the sound of clinking wine glasses and the strains of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 theme as my brother and I sneak away to watch while adults talk about adult things.

I can feel the friction of skateboard wheels on asphalt under my feet, heading to my best friend's house to play Fugazi songs, me on bass, him on guitar, nobody on drums because nobody could afford drums. I remember what his house smelled like, slightly damp but warm. His four track is running, hissing while we play.

I can taste the squid salad from Rearn Thai in Greensboro, the dish of choice when we were out, vinegary and peppery, hot but not too, my mouth puckering.

I can feel the weight of my coat as I head out to DJ on yet another Saturday night at crappy, rundown Dizzy G's. I can taste the Zima and feel the bass from the Covenant song. People are dancing, dancing, dancing.

It's the release of World of Warcraft. I'm playing. A lot. I've joined my first guild, invited by an undead mage named Tyranthrax while we were doing a group quest. I barely know him but get in Ventrilo. He has a Boston accent, gruff. He's a pretty good mage.

I feel the hot sting of tears from a romantic rejection when I was 17, a girl I barely remember and who certainly doesn't remember me. She was cute, was interested, then wasn't, in the way teenagers are. My friend Whitney is there, comforting me.

I can feel the rise and fall of my daughter's chest, three months old, small and fragile but so vast. I can smell the diapers. Roseanne is on because it was time to feed her and she can sleep but I can't.

I'm 9. I want chips and dip but the dip has settled and is watery. My mother tries to drain it but the dip slips into the sink. No chips and dip. I throw a fit. I'm mean. She cries. My stepfather is mean back. I empty the clothes from my dresser and start flinging them down the stairs.

Closer: I am in a room in Bingham Hall, new friends in my PhD cohort, all younger than me. Larry Grossberg is at a desk, working his way, week by week, through the entirety of Western philosophy since Spinoza. I have to walk to my car and drive at 9:30. Campus is quiet after the protests.

Like I said, it's the sensory dimension which proves overwhelming sometimes. I'd say I'm losing my mind with age, but every single autumn this happens. But it is overwhelming. I've found myself laughing at a good memory waking me up at midnight: parties, sex, a good meal, a favorite song. More often, it's melancholy. Sometimes I cry. I can't make it stop. I've never been able to. I rather wish I could.

This autumn feels a little more melancholy than most, a set of endings. I suppose it could be worse. I might not remember anything at all.