I don't remember when I decided that fall is my favorite season. Nor do I recall why I chose to crown it champion among its three competitors. It seems as though fall has always been my favorite—even before I understood the consequences of calling the others losers by virtue of choosing fall. Why haven't I stopped to think about this? Shouldn't I have considered the consequences before pledging my affection?

But fall IS truly magnificent, is it not? Perhaps it is the harvest that attracts me; or the cooler weather and changing colors. No. Not these things. No, I fear my attraction is more shallow than even these blessed transitions. Could it be the crux of my love is built upon a foundation of pumpkin pie and whipped cream? That smooth, earthy dessert of princes and paupers. A custard so delightful, one cannot escape its rich enchantment and soft aroma. Have I sold my seasonal soul to a dessert?

It may be that if some deviant were to offer me a dessert with comparable seduction during the spring, I would play the field. But where is the honor in that? Surely there is enough lackluster commitment betwixt our incisors. I'll grant you there is something enchanting about strawberry shortcakes or tulipes with raspberry sorbet. Yet I find myself galvanized into this marriage of patience and payoff. And as I grow older and my taste buds grow weary for the fruit of another, I will stand firm upon my first love. Though the sirens of winter, spring, and summer call to me quarterly, I have chosen to remain faithful to the season of sweatshirt weather and raking.

I don't need others to put their offerings upon the table of choice. The choice was made years ago when my grandmother dangerously formed my attachment to an after-dinner delight. And while I still fear it will take years to own my convictions, I have elected to forsake all others in the monogamous pursuit of my favorite season.