There is nothing for me like summertime.

I don't know what the reasons are in that equation. I wish I could be the kind of person who likes all the seasons the same. Or even that my preference was so minuscule that it didn't really matter. But I have never been that kind of person, I have not been raised around those kinds of people, and I feel like my experiences are only going to get more extreme.

Autumn has come to Houghton and I'm trying my best to make it a good one. I wear scarves and sweaters and I drink spiced apple cider like its going off the market. But Autumn to be has a subtext that I cannot ignore or deny.

Autumn comes before winter. Winter is on its way.

And Autumn is so short in western New York. The chilled days we've been having lately remind me of late November on the Island. The leaves do not make a slow decent toward the ground. One day they are a cacophony of color, and the next they are on the ground and my flip flops are irrelevant.

Meanwhile, I'm growing out the damage done to my hair with chlorine and salt. My skin looks stretched and pale. I dream of sand and air that always smells like the ocean. I don't want to think about the sunflowers which are not now lying crumbled on the cement. Sunflowers I waited months for.