I would ask each Saturday morning of September if it was time yet, even if it was 80 degrees outside. One quiet Saturday morning we’d wake up to the sparkle of the first frost of the season on the grass out front, with the ocean’s fog dancing across the surface.
It was like Christmas came early for six year old me. My mother would retrieve the box of sweaters from the attic that we’d carefully folded and put away the spring before. Finally, I was reunited with my favorite pullovers, button ups, vests and my favorite, the cardigans. I would pull out each one and look at it. I’d already preemptively cleared a drawer in the dresser, and refolded each of them carefully and reverently. Forty years later, I still get that rush of romantic energy as the leaves start to gently turn into fall. The return of sweater weather.