I do not like September but I like autumn
I do not like September but I like autumn. I do not like how the words September, October, November and December end. Both in French and in Spanish, the "embre" and the "bre" sound fatal to my ear. They are ugly, boring and annoying sounds like a French R and disgusting like a cold meat. They are too long and complicated words to end the year. They stretch like plastic frankfurters and I prefer the freshness of the melon. I prefer the color of the musical vowels of March, April, May and June. They are short and happy words in the meridian of the calendar, where there is no turning back, where I would like time to stop, in the middle of a lemon bud.
My disdain for September has nothing to do with the post-holiday syndrome, the end of summer and the scant arrival of the Barcelona rain. Not at all. I do not like what it's called, period. But I like autumn.
In the same way that a few months ago I was dying to walk barefoot in the tiles, I love the arrival of autumn to be able to cover my skin again, leave the green summer water to shine yellow mustard, purple and green military. To feel again like a girl from the North, to endure the wind, the rain and the freshness. Read behind a wet window, remove the sugar from an infusion and look for the hidden socks at the bottom of the bed.
Autumn starts with an oh! of joy and continues with a forest-colored tone, punctuated by a ñ that flutters like the dance of a leaf. Autumn is like spring because it excites me.
