It’s that time of year again. Kids are going back to school, the weather is getting colder, leaves are changing color. Summer has ended, and if nature’s cues aren’t enough to tell you that it’s fall, you will know by me being covered in scabs.
Every year around this time, I wake up and the morning, and it’s scabs all over. On my legs, on my arms, on my face, and in my butt crack. Everywhere. If the birds flying south and the inescapable presence of pumpkins didn’t tip you off, just look at my body, and you’ll know that we are in the midst of the autumn season.
If the shorter days don’t indicate Earth’s tilt away from the sun for you, look for my scabs. If, for some reason, you have misplaced your calendar and can’t afford a new one, just call me up and ask, “Scabs?” If I say yes, you will know it’s at least September 22nd. If you ask how long I’ve had the scabs, you can do the math and figure out the date. But please do this as soon as you can. I get weary from all the scabs, and won’t be able to take any calls too late into the season.
My dermatologist can easily tell when it’s fall. That’s the time I come into her office and beg for more of those creams — those soothing creams for my scabs. I’ll say, “I need the creams now, please.” And she’ll say, “Must be fall!” And I’ll say, “How did you know?” And she’ll say, “Because that’s the time of year when you want my creams — my soothing creams for your scabs.” Then I’ll pour a whole bottle of the soothing cream all over my body right in front of her and squish out of the office.
By Halloweentime, if you still are unaware that it’s fall, you can look at my costume. It’s the same every year — a giant scab. And it’s not a costume. It’s just my scabs. They cover my body so thick that it just looks like one scab. I tried wearing a sheet on my head and going as a ghost one year, but I realized that I only prevented more people from knowing that it’s fall. I need to be seen. People need to know. Also, the sheet kept snagging on my scabs and blood and pus oozed out all over it. That was my best sheet.
Please do not touch my scabs. I assure you, they are real, and they are tender. I would not cover my body in scabs just to trick you. Summer is over, and we all have our problems. You didn’t get to take the boat out as much as you wanted, and my skin is one big, brown crust.
I do not know why I am afflicted with these painful scabs. The good Lord, in his divine wisdom, must just know that I’m the only one who can bear the burden of announcing fall’s arrival. I have no choice but to endure it until Christmastime when my body will be as fleshy and pink as Santa’s cheeks.
Conner Cole 