The falling of perfect memories

Walking in front of Firestone this morning, I couldn't help but stop and admire the trees whose leaves are turning that bright, natural yellow that so reminds me of my childhood. In the most trite way possible, it made me feel lucky to be at Princeton, surrounded by such beauty, and I was almost sickened by my own nostalgia and romanticism. Before I could berate myself for my clichéd reactions — or perhaps to prevent (or merely delay) the inevitable self-criticism — I intellectualized my hackneyed feelings.

What makes the fall so enjoyable? Why do the colors of the leaves strike me so? Why does the crisp, cold air leave me breathless and blissful? As I turned to go into the library, I had to hesitate and take one last gaze at the trees, trying to fix that specific color of yellow in my mind. I was trying to seize that exact moment, the cool weather and the peaceful sounds of the leaves scraping on the ground, intact in my memory so I could revisit it again and again. I wanted to be able to hold the moment, encapsulating it in a glass snowdome, to be shaken and gazed upon at my will.

And I realized that it was precisely because I couldn't fix that moment perfectly in my memory that I wanted to. And what is so enjoyable, so appealing about fall is that, like spring, it's passing; they are transition seasons. Summer and winter lack this explicit transitional nature. Summer's hot and winter's cold, while fall is cool and spring is warm. Summer and winter are extremes; fall and spring are the movements between them.

And we can sense this movement. We watch as the leaves turn, knowing all too well that as soon as they turn completely they'll fall to the ground and winter will be upon us. We feel the air getting cooler and know that it will soon be too cold to wear just a sweater. We smell the earthy musk of the leaves and know that soon the raw, austere smell of winter will be in the air. In the fall, every day can be individual and different — sometimes it's warm enough for short sleeves and other times you wish you hadn't left your winter coat at home.

The immutable specter of winter haunts every beautifully variegated fall afternoon. The threat of the unceasing bleakness that makes up so much of winter is what gives value to the fall. There is never a long period where all the trees have turned the bright yet muted red, yellow and ochre; our senses don't acclimatize to the autumnal temperature changes. We don't get desensitized to the beauty of fall, the way weeks of snow and ice breed discontent and a blunted awareness of the outside.

No, the fall is constantly changing, constantly "falling," to pun, into the grips of a cold, dark seemingly relentless winter. I know that I can't save the moment. I know it won't stay in my memory exactly the way it was. But my recollections will constantly change as well, erasing some details, but drawing in others. Perhaps, in my memory, the yellow of the leaves will be a little brighter and, when I remember it another time, perhaps the air will feel a few degrees cooler. So perhaps I am remembering it exactly the way it was — changing, transforming and progressing.

Perhaps if the romanticism of my memory continues, as I know it will, I'll begin to remember everything not as fixed idealizations but as constantly transmuting and developing. Because to remember perfectly is really, in a sense, to forget. John Lurz is an English major from Timonium, Md. He can be reached at johnlurz@princeton.edu.