For as long as I can remember, autumn has been my favorite season, but I never knew why. The new season brings a new smell, and although autumn's scent is one of decay, it's refreshing. The air isn't as heavy as in summer, and I enjoy simply breathing.

Autumn instills a sense of familiarity. I recall apple picking at a young age. In the sun it was hot, and I would discard my sweater like a dirty rag. Then, in the shade, I would cling to my sweater like the leaves around me were desperately clinging to their branches. I remember raking up piles of leaves to feel them crunch under my weight.

Most of all, I remember my mother. As a child I was blind to her troubles. To me she seemed happy. When the leaves began to change, she would transform the house. Summer decorations were packed with care in the attic, and in a matter of hours our house would be covered in pumpkins and garlands. The cotton-scented candle would be replaced by Macintosh or Autumn Wreath.

Since then, my mom has been promoted. Now she travels three weeks a month. And I look to the past for reassurance. Now that I'm older, I can see how hard things are for my parents. Work is wearing my mother down, and often she is too exhausted to do anything fun. I fear leaving home when I graduate because I fear losing these fond memories and comforting traditions.

I still pick apples and my house still endures an abrupt transformation this time of year, but somehow I feel that the ignorant life I loved as a child is slipping away. I have come to understand that, just like the leaves in autumn, nothing will stay the same. Fall is my security blanket. It's more than just a season. It is a window to the past, to simpler times.