I miss autumn. I keep thinking about the colors, the brisk air, and the feel of the leaves under my boots. I miss when sweaters are worn out of necessity (and not because your coworkers insist on keeping the air conditioner at 73). Shadows cast on floors are just not the same without those bits of rust and aged gold sprinkled across the path. I want a hot apple cider and cinnamon burning away on the stove, I want the smell of chestnuts and the voice of my mother insisting I try them. I'm not fond of them, I just like what they represent: family sprawled across the coach, plucking them off the pan and peeling away at the chestnuts even though they are a little burnt and much too hot to eat. I don't have a picture of chestnuts, just leaves and flowers and creatures that live in deeper lands.