I was born into a world glowing, burning, trembling just at the thought of winter. The chill on the air; the scent that cannot be placed, so we settle and call it crisp. Fiery leaves, mellow rain. I am a September baby.
I think I like seasons so much, because unlike much else, they never alter. They're comforting. You can count on them. Places change; seasons never do. (Which makes it all the more ironic to consider which is better known for shifting, and which for being rooted to one spot.)
Even the place you've visited ever since your first Starbucks coffee washed down a massive chocolate fudge brownie shared with your dad. Even a place of refuge for years can look different to you in the span of a day. Time can turn the familiar foreign.
But nothing can sway the seasons. Every September arrives with the same electricity. Each autumn brings with it crunchy leaves; decked out cafes; menus reborn with seasonal specials; pumpkins; thick socks to banish the cold from your toes. September is a balancing act of tension and excitement, no matter where in the world it finds you.
So if you ask me where I was born, I'll nod and say September.