november

Last year i missed fall completely. Just as the leaves began to be singed with traces of purple and orange the tidal wave of Musical Season swallowed me up, pulling me underground into its ebb and its flow. I didn't see sunlight for days. I was like a mole, running frantically through tunnels and tunnels and never befriending the day. By the time I emerged, the leaves had turned from green to burnt black crusts of things crinkled on the pavement, shriveling into themselves like stale, forgotten words.

This year i will stare fall in the face and dare it to try sneaking past me. This year i will also not fall in love with a ladykiller. (They are so ripe and juicy, but when you bite into them there are always seeds.) Musical Season is the time of year when everybody falls in love with each other. Our lungs are filled with so much sweat and hairspray that we become, without fail, madly amorous and mildly delusional. This year i will fall in love with a tall, wholesome blonde.

By the end of that special circle of purgatory which is Dress Rehearsal Week you will have strong feelings for every member of the cast. You will either adore them or abhor them. This is because you will spend every waking (and sometimes sleeping) moment of your life with them for three full weeks. You will know their dietary habits, the flavor of their laundary detergent, and whether or not they drive I-27 like it is the Indianapolis 500. You will know the tenor of their snoring and how ungodly they look in a leotard. You will cry in their shoulders and sleep in their laps.

Then the final drum slaps the final beat of the accompaniment, and the stage trembles with the timbre of seventy-five wails of joy. And in those seconds you feel as though your heart is going to burst, every inch of your body salted and marinated by the sleek sweetness of other's sweat. This is one of those moments that you should tell your grandchildren about, something inside you whispers. But no matter how hard you slurp you can't really drink it in.

But by then the trees are bare, discarding the last from their branches like old letters. By then the sky has drawn up into itself and sighs coldly, and all we can do is glance shyly at one another accross the tired dark grass through sleep-revived eyes and remember. This year i will remember them. I will search them accross the damp grey lawn and lie my head in their laps, the cold deciduous leaves melting sweetly on my skin like cough drops... like memories.