Today, I find myself organizing the summer box—a transparent plastic container that fits perfectly atop our Ikea wardrobe. The wardrobe, along with its contents—the scarves and sweaters recently liberated from their confines—seems as pristine as the day my partner assembled it. We relocated here just two years ago, in the spring. While spring is a time of budding life and vibrant greenery, autumn represents a fresh start: as the weather cools, it draws people back to the city, to school, to local eateries, and to their boxes filled with cozy corduroys and warm sweatshirts.
As a transplant from Los Angeles, New York City embodies the cinematic realm of vibrant yellows and reds during fall, paired with rainy days spent in front of classic movie theaters. It reminds me of my first year at university, when I first donned a cable-knit sweater. Autumn ushers in football season, shorter days, flickering candles, and a bittersweet nostalgia as the streets of New York illuminate one by one, adorned with bright white lights. It’s a time of midterms, finals, and weekend trips to see friends upstate, filled with envy for the sleek J.Crew boots worn by the privileged kids and the excitement of attending holiday concerts.
However, this autumn feels different; it doesn’t call to me in the same way it once did. For many, the chill and dwindling light of fall serve as a metaphor for loss. Poets often invoke the season to articulate the shadows lurking in their minds—an encroaching darkness that embodies our fears, both articulated and unspoken.
My mother is unwell. I can no longer ignore the reality of her condition. She’s been facing health challenges for some time now, with dementia becoming a defining aspect of her life. A stroke struck her down at just 68 years old, likely a consequence of a medication that should never have been prescribed. It was November 2009 when everything changed. Fall was also her favorite season; she lay in the ICU while I consumed cold turkey and gravy at the hospital cafeteria.
On Thanksgiving Day of 2009, my partner was with his family in Philadelphia, but I couldn’t leave my mother’s side, even if she didn’t recognize me. In her moments of clarity, she found solace in familiar poetry, even if she couldn’t recall my name. She sometimes recognized me as her baby, and even knew my sister, who sat with us, experiencing nausea from her first trimester.
I promised my mother that once she recovered, I would take her to see the origami holiday tree at the Museum of Natural History and the Rockefeller Center skating rink, where she once performed before throngs of spectators in her youth. I reminded her that autumn awaited her—the chilly nights she adored, the crunch of fallen leaves that had never signified endings to her, but rather excitement and potential. My mother thrived in weather that many would find dreary; cold, rain, and darkness invigorated her spirit.
This year, however, my mother is unaware that fall has arrived. She’s back in the hospital for yet another stay, besieged by panic attacks. I pleaded with her doctor to ensure her comfort and requested a prescription for medication to help her. Today, at long last, it was granted.
Meanwhile, my daughter is turning three this November. After a blissful two and a half years, I’m now facing the inevitable struggles that accompany parenthood. Experts refer to this as disequilibrium—periods where children experience harmony with their caregivers, followed by times of turmoil. I’ve begun to observe foot-stomping, boundary-testing, and a trait not limited to toddlers: an inability to recognize her blessings and an obstinate fixation on what she cannot have.
I adore my child deeply. She possesses certain expressions and a star-like charm reminiscent of my mother’s childhood photos. When I let her down on the street, she dashes into the crowd with a speed I thought was only animated. My mother often told me she was the same, recounting how my grandmother struggled to keep track of her. That’s why she was gifted figure skates at age four. She accomplished much with them.
Our initial long stretch of harmony has passed, but I know there are many more seasons ahead. I also believe that daily skirmishes will dissipate as we navigate further into childhood. I always had a strong bond with my mother; I can’t recall any significant rebellions or secrets between us. I hope that my daughter and I can cultivate the same level of trust and love as she matures.
My connection with my mother has fundamentally shifted. While she is still alive and can experience pain and fear, our relationship now revolves around maintenance. I do what I can when I visit or call, and sometimes my partner even goes to her apartment to offer comfort.
She will never again prepare my clothes for school, nor does she recall what I looked like in them. Although she can’t remember my daughter’s name, she delights in hearing her voice and expresses a desire to see her. I remind her that she saw her just yesterday, and the cycle continues.
For my mother, it feels as though winter has settled in permanently. There will be no more springs or falls, regardless of how many years she may have left. I grieve, reminisce, peruse old photographs, and hold my daughter closer, reading her even more bedtime stories. I don’t mind if she stays up late or makes paper chains with her dad at 10 p.m. I’m unbothered if she wishes to wear her nightgown and rain boots to the local bookstore.
This is merely one season in many with my daughter. Regardless of the challenges, we are together. We know who we are to each other, and we recall our shared experiences from the day before. We find comfort in the same home because she is our little girl. There remains ample cuddling, joy, a quest for approval, and a flood of inquiries about the world. Life is good with my young family.
I wish I could bring my mother into this joyful existence. I wish she could remember a day at the park or the days of my childhood. But she cannot. I’m striving not to dwell on what I cannot change. I am teaching my toddler to appreciate all she has and to revel in the beauty of the season that begins on her father’s birthday and the autumn equinox. Teaching by example is the only way forward.
I refuse to surrender autumn to the dark winds swirling around this year. This season belongs to me, just as it did to my mother. It’s time to turn up the music and illuminate our lives as we dance together—my husband, my daughter, and when she is able, my mother, too.
When my mother is no longer with us, whenever that time may come, I will ensure that autumn becomes a celebration. I will tell my daughter:
“This was one of your grandmother’s greatest joys—this season. It all begins now: the festive store displays, school supplies, autumn attire, holiday gatherings, twinkling lights, and scarves wrapped snugly against the evening chill.”
“This was your grandmother’s. She passed it to me. And now, I pass it to you.”
Summary:
In this poignant reflection, Jamie Taylor navigates the contrasting experiences of autumn as a time of joy and connection with her young daughter, while grappling with her mother’s decline due to dementia. Despite the challenges of parenthood and the heartache of her mother’s illness, Taylor emphasizes the importance of cherishing memories and celebrating the beauty of the season. She resolves to teach her daughter to appreciate life’s moments, ensuring the spirit of autumn remains vibrant in their family.