When I was little, Autumn meant the air around me was just cold enough to see my breath. On the playground, my friends and I would use twigs to pretend we were smoking with 1920's style cigarette holders. Then, whenever a police car drove by we would throw our twigs down and run to the other end of the playground. While we were running, we'd feign panic and say to one another between breaths, "Do you think they saw us?" Once we stopped running, we would laugh hysterically, clutching our stomachs, trying to catch our breath.

When I was little, Autumn meant the trees gradually morphed from green to yellow, orange, and fire red. At home, my sisters and I would help my dad rake the leaves into one massive pile at the end of our driveway. Then, before my dad raked the pile to the curb, my sisters and I would take turns jumping in it. It always hurt a little more than I thought it would, but I still did it again and again and again, even when I found a daddy-long-legs crawling on my coat afterwards.

When I was little, Autumn meant stuffed red peppers, lamb stews, cinnamon sweet potatoes, and a whole lot of apples. Some years, my mom would take us apple picking, and the entire time my sisters and I thought of the hot apple cider donuts we would have at the end. I remember trying to lick off the spiced sugar from the surface of my donut, and my mom scolding me for making a mess.

When I was little, Autumn meant haunted houses. As a well-established scaredy-cat, haunted houses were always a huge challenge for me. In our town, one of the residents built their own haunted house every year and people lined up down the sidewalk in order to get in. Some years, I down-right refused to go in, but when my little sister started feeling brave enough to go, I knew I had to step up, too. I remember, clutching my dad's arm so tightly I'm sure I was cutting off circulation. Right before we entered the make-shift haunted house, a man wearing a mask said, "Don't forget to say 'Happy Halloween'" and I clung to that advice as tightly as I clung to my dad's arm. Whenever a person in a mask would creep along beside us, I would repeat "Happy Halloween, Happy Halloween, Happy Halloween," in a shaky voice until my sisters yelled at me to be quiet or the person in the mask broke down and mutter, "okay, okay, thanks, kid."

Every Autumn, all these memories swirl around in my head like the whipped cream on top of a recently stirred mocha. But what is it about Autumn that takes me back to childhood so intently? I'm not sure if there's one obvious answer to that question. Maybe it's because American Autumns contain more culturally collective activities than other seasons or because Autumn air is more memorable in our lungs.

Either way, I'm not complaining.