Autumn has always been my least favorite season. That’s partly because summer is my favorite and I don’t want it to end and partly because it’s followed by winter—which is generally bleak in Metro Detroit due to a lack of appreciable sunshine. It’s a season I tend to think of as marked by deprivation. A season of bereavement.
I haven’t decided yet whether it’s mercifully efficient or a horribly brutal coincidence, but every single significant date in my relationship with Jerry happens in the fall.
Starting with the Last Normal Day of My Old Life (August 31 and yes, I do think of it with initial caps in my head …), continuing through the anniversaries of the day we met and our wedding and culminating with the anniversary of Jerry’s death on December 7, autumn is laden with emotional minefields.
In general, I’m a fairly upbeat pragmatist and one of my strongest traits is resilience. But every year—no matter that I am happy with my current life—I find myself fighting the urge to hide and lick my wounded heart when the leaves start falling.
I wish I had something truly wise to say at this point, but all I’ve got is this: sometimes you really do have to fake it ‘til you make it.
That means something different for everyone but for me it generally means that if I act happy, I feel a little happier. So tonight I’ll be joining some of my widowed friends, including The Boyfriend, to watch Mel Brooks’ classic “Young Frankenstein.” A good dose of ‘sedagive’ might be just what this widow needs.
Listen to Nat King Cole sing “Autumn Leaves.”