The leaves were already tinted with color. Red, yellow, orange are the trademarks of the fall season, cascading down the trees so gracefully. The breezy air smelled of spices, such as cinnamon being freshly ground and pumpkin pie. The cold breeze threw shivers down my spine, and the wet grass glistened from the morning dew. It looked as though everything had been coated in plastic with the shine of the night rain. The crisp air caught my breath and then slowly released, making my heart race. The horizon was staring at me with a bold orange and pink array of color. The cornfields ahead seemed to never end, repeating the same pattern over and over again. The field looked like my grandmother’s quilt hugging the cold, solid ground. These cornfields were not filled with the juicy yellow cornstalks anymore, since time had passed. Now, all that stood were the empty stalks baring nothing but a few brown crinkled weeds.  My shiny red rain boots crushed the crunchy leaves. Frigid ice- cold water ran through the small creek that separated the lush green land from the yellow dry fields. The small amounts of frost climbing up the rocks gave me the impression of what was to come. From afar I could vaguely see the outline of my grandmother in her red robe. She emerged out of the glass door and on to the deck of the large wooden home.
“Amalia, where are you? Come back inside. You’re going to freeze,” my grandma called, with a hint of worry in her voice.
By now my nose had turned a bright red and my mind immediately turned to Rudolph. I was a distracted kid, always thinking. It was an exasperating walk back to the house so I started to trudge my way back up the hill and back to the comfort of my Grandma’s house. Black thick mud started to build up on the tips of my squeaky red boots. I turned my head quickly to realize I had forgotten what grandma had sent me out here to do. I ran quickly to the apple tree, and picked some apples, each time hearing the distinctive “pluck” when the stem detached from the apple. I gathered the apple in the hem of my shirt and curled it over, making a nice basket. I smiled at myself for my cleverness.  I rushed to the house. As I walked into the door the warm air surrounded me.
“Did you get the apples?” my grandmother questioned, with her eyebrow slightly raised, making a little crinkle in the crease of her nose.
“Yes, Grandma, need anymore?” I asked eagerly, wanting a good excuse to go back to see the beautiful scene called fall. This is when I first fell in love with fall.
The fall is the time of spices such as cinnamon being freshly grounded and pumpkin pie. This time of transition from summer to winter is both a time of sorrow and happiness. Fall is a time of sorrow, because summer will be missed, but a time of happiness for the winter to come.