It’s odd, how a warm day in late November can feel like a day at the start of spring. Today, a feeble end poses as a bright beginning and I feel rather betrayed by the weather. The unseasonable air reminds me of how a mournful goodbye can sound quite like I love you and never leave. There’s something regretful about autumn. The season makes us sad, and I’ve always wondered why. It strands us with our memories and worst views of the world. Somehow it ask us to remember.