Autumn

Today is the first day of autumn, and, coincidentally, it is also Callan's birthday. Callan, as you may know, is my friend Joey's four-year-old son. I think he likes me, because whenever I'm around he seems to be very excited (he can't be that way all the time, can he?), and he asks me tons of questions beginning with, "Hey Grover!"

Last week we were all at Walmart together and Callan decided to shop with me rather than his parents. As we walked around the store looking for an ironing board and some Snack Packs, I asked him, "Callan, who am I?" He squirmed the way kids do when they sense you are patronizing them. "I'm not your father and I'm not your brother," I prodded, interested to see if Callan would classify me as an uncle or some other, lesser relative.

"You're—uh, you're my friend," said he.

And there you have it; I was schooled by a three-year-old. Of all the things I was expecting, "friend" was the last, but when I think about it, it really was the right answer. As far as I know, I was the only person Callan personally invited to his house today for cake and ice cream (we won't count Eric, whom we ran into at Walmart, because Callan didn't know who he was). We must really be friends.

Here's to autumn, my favorite season, the one in which newly cold air, heavy with memories, finds your skin at the wrists and ankles and collar—wherever there is a seam—awakening both bitter regret and sweet recollection. And here's to friendships shared with three-year-olds on up, one thing that should never become merely a memory. To all my friends: I love you.