“Hello, Autumn,” Clara whispered. And the word felt right with the capital A, as if she had finally addressed an old friend by her true name.
The unease began one October evening when her nephew, Leo, handed her a drawing. He was seven, with jam on his chin and a fierce sense of wonder. The drawing showed a lopsided tree with orange and red crayon scribbles, and beneath it, in wobbly letters: My Frend Autumn. should autumn be capitalized
Leo looked at her as if she’d just told him the moon wasn’t real. “But Autumn is a name,” he said. “She comes every year. She’s my friend. She brings the crunchy leaves and the cold air and the smell of wet dirt. She’s not a thing. She’s a person.” “Hello, Autumn,” Clara whispered
She signed her name and, for the first time in her career, added a postscript: He was seven, with jam on his chin