That night, Clara walked through town. The air was sharp and sweet with woodsmoke. Pumpkins grinned from porches. A wind kicked up a spiral of copper leaves, and for a fleeting second, Clara could almost see a figure there—a tall woman in a russet cloak, her hair made of dried ferns, her laugh the sound of acorns dropping on a tin roof.
The next morning, Clara sat at her desk. She opened the style guide, then closed it. She took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote a letter to the editor of the grammar column she secretly admired. should autumn be capitalized
Dear Sir or Madam, she wrote. For years I have believed that seasons are not proper nouns. But last night, I met autumn—no, Autumn—in the street. She wore gold on her sleeves and smelled of apples. And I realized: we capitalize what we respect, what we love, what we welcome like a guest. Autumn has a personality, a presence, a promise. She deserves the dignity of a capital letter. That night, Clara walked through town
She signed her name and, for the first time in her career, added a postscript: A wind kicked up a spiral of copper
Clara opened her mouth to explain grammar, but something stopped her. She looked at the drawing again. The capital A stood there, bold and bright, like a tiny crown on the season’s head.