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.”
She signed her name and, for the first time in her career, added a postscript: should autumn be capitalized
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. Leo looked at her as if she’d just
Clara smiled. She didn’t correct it. She bought a slice of pumpkin bread instead, and ate it standing in a swirl of leaves, under a sky the color of a capital letter. She’s my friend
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.