I remember the first time I saw fall leaves fall. I saw the orange color and immediately thought about the sun. I thought about home; I missed it. Soon, I would be cold, running in the winter of a country so strange to me.

I remember the first time I saw fall leaves fall. It reminded me of how fickle emotions can be. It reminded me of my first rejection. I think I took it well, but now I just hate the word “sure” because it is not an enthusiastic “yes” nor a resounding “no”.

I remember the first time I saw fall leaves fall. It reminded me of challenging my religion, something I once felt so attached to. It was part of who I am. It was part of my daily routine. Now, I am in the dust. Now, I am lost. At least that’s what my parents told me.

I love how small talk means talking about the weather. I love talking about the weather and seasons because then, I can reminisce about running in the rain, getting my hands frozen by an ice ball, dancing in the sun and walking slowly in the fall. Weather talk is not small talk to me.

Your favorite season means something to me. Sometimes, I wish there were weather gods. What made them make it rain? What made them make the weather gloomy, sunny or cold? I wait for seasons because I am reminded of memories I would forget otherwise. They makes me fall in love differently, talk differently and even smile differently. I wait for the seasons because I change skin just like the sky.