Mother Nature must have heard that another month went by. Like clockwork, the temperature dipped, the sunlight got softer, and the air smells like I imagine only a Midwest fall can: a little smoky, a little crisper and so welcoming.

A new month.
The month of bouquets of sunflowers and chilly morning walks to class and open windows at all times. The month of busting out scarves and boots again, the month of my 22nd year in all its anticlimactic glory, the month of Saturdays like today: watching college football, fostering new friendships with old faces, feeling the afterglow of a night having a new face around. The month of handholding. Of an “I like you” that means something — that doesn’t scare you, that you’re not afraid to trust, that you think can put stock in. Of kisses on the nose. Of butterflies and excitement that you haven’t felt in many other new months.
A month of school and Des Moines and a life that exists separate from Chicago, which is a life I need and am content to live right now.

Welcome, September. If you were a book, you would be marigold and crimson, leatherbound; classic with a gold spine. I’ve read you before — you’re one of my favorites — but far from being old and dusty…
I’m buying you new.

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