Today, I find myself preparing to store away the remnants of summer. I’m sorting through a transparent plastic container that fits neatly atop our modern wardrobe. Within it lie the scarves and sweaters that have been freed from their confinement, ready to welcome the cooler months. It’s been just two years since we relocated in the spring, a time of budding life and renewal. Yet autumn brings its own fresh start, ushering in the return of students, the crisp air, and the cozy gatherings at local cafes, where people dust off their fall wardrobes filled with corduroy and knitwear.
As a newcomer to New York City from sunny Los Angeles, I envision the city as a vibrant tapestry of fall colors, reminiscent of classic films. It conjures memories of my freshman days at Columbia University, the chill in the air marking the onset of football season, the flickering lights of the city, and the sweet ache of homesickness. Each autumn seems to ignite a flicker of nostalgia—of late-night study sessions, train rides to visit friends upstate, and the envy of peers with their designer boots.
However, this autumn feels different. The season, once a symbol of vitality and excitement, now carries a weight of sorrow. For many, the cooling temperatures signify a retreat into darkness, a metaphor for loss and unspoken fears.
My mother has been unwell. It’s time to confront the truth—I can no longer ignore the reality of her condition. Dementia, which she has been battling for some time, began after a stroke at the young age of 68, likely precipitated by a medication that should never have been prescribed. That fateful November in 2009 marked the beginning of a long, difficult journey. Fall was also her favorite season; I remember sitting in the hospital cafeteria, my heart heavy as I consumed cold turkey while she lay in the ICU.
Thanksgiving of that year was particularly poignant. My husband was with his family in Philadelphia, while I remained by my mother’s side—her understanding of who I was faded, yet she found solace in familiar verses of poetry. She recognized fragments of our family, even as she struggled to grasp the present. I promised her that once she recovered, I would take her to see the magical origami holiday tree at the Museum of Natural History, to skate at Rockefeller Center, where she once dazzled audiences. I spoke of the autumn she adored—the season that represented excitement, not just the inevitability of endings.
This year, she is unaware that autumn has arrived. Once again confined to a hospital bed, she experiences anxiety that I can’t assuage easily. I pleaded with her doctors for comfort measures, and finally, the prescription for anxiety relief was granted.
Amid this turmoil, my little girl is turning three this November. After two and a half years of relative harmony, I now face the challenges that every parent inevitably encounters: the inevitable shifts in behavior known as disequilibrium. My daughter, for the first time, is testing boundaries with foot-stamping and an all-too-familiar refusal to appreciate her fortune.
Despite the challenges, my love for her is boundless. There are moments when I see echoes of my mother in her expressions, the same spark that once lit my mother’s young face. I recall how my mother shared tales of her own childhood mischief, the chaos that ensued as my grandmother tried to keep track of her spirited nature.
While I am aware that this phase of harmony has passed, I hold onto the hope of future seasons filled with love and understanding. I yearn for the same bond that I enjoyed with my mother, a connection devoid of major rebellions or secrets.
Yet, the seasons I shared with my mother are now behind us. Our relationship has shifted to one of maintenance—ensuring her comfort and care in her times of distress. She no longer dresses me for school; she struggles to recall what I looked like then. Although she may not remember my daughter’s name, she lights up at the sound of her voice, calling for her with a tenderness that reminds me of the past.
Now, for my mother, it is as if winter has settled in permanently. The cycles of spring and fall have faded, regardless of how many more years she may have. I mourn what we have lost, I sift through old photographs, and I cherish every moment with my daughter, reading her more bedtime stories and indulging in her whims. I allow her the freedom to wear her favorite nightgown and rain boots to the bookstore, knowing that these are precious moments.
This is but one of many seasons with my daughter. Despite the challenges, we share a bond of understanding and recognition. Life is rich with love, curiosity, and joy.
I wish I could share this vibrant world with my mother, to introduce her to the wonders of a day spent at the park, or the cherished memories of my childhood. However, I must resist the urge to focus on what is lost. As I guide my little one to appreciate the beauty of the season—arriving just in time for her father’s birthday—I realize that I can teach through example.
This autumn will not succumb to despair. It is a time for celebration, reminiscent of my mother’s joy. I will share with my daughter the magic of this season: the festive store displays, the gathering of school supplies, the warmth of holiday parties, and the enchanting glow of twinkling lights.
This was your grandmother’s joy, and it has been passed down to me. Now, I pass it on to you.
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Summary:
In this poignant reflection, the author navigates the complexities of autumn, intertwined with personal experiences of love, loss, and the challenges of motherhood. As she prepares for the changing season, she grapples with her mother’s illness while celebrating the joys of raising her daughter. The narrative captures the bittersweet essence of change, illustrating how memories and traditions are woven into the fabric of family life.
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