Memento Mori, as a Cozy Story
Every October, as the air turns crisp and the light hits long and low on the dying ferns, I’m reminded that everything ends. The basil I nurtured all summer? Gone to seed. The mums I bought optimistically two weeks ago? Now a sad collection of flower heads hanging in shame. The seasonal candle that promised “Cedarwood Serenity”? Well, the exterior is holding up, but the inside is a swirled melted blob sprinkled with black bits, daring me to compare it to my emotional stability.
“Memento mori,” the Stoics said — remember, you must die. It’s not the catchiest phrase for a fall-scented candle, but maybe it should be. I can smell it now: Memento Mori – with notes of cinnamon, leaf smoke, and existential dread. I’m not saying Seneca had it wrong, but if he had a pumpkin spice latte in hand when he said it, he might have lightened up a little. “Hic ad bonum tempus, non diu,” doesn’t roll off the tongue, but “Here for a good time, not for a long time,” is a little less, ah, deathy.
Autumn is nature’s polite way of reminding us that decay can be beautiful, as long as it’s tastefully arranged in a Pottery Barn catalogue. Leaves turn prismatic before they brown; Jack-o-lanterns turn from botox to bootox as they rot aesthetically on our porches. It’s the only time of year when we celebrate death by decorating for it. Skeletons, ghosts, ghouls — all very “end of life,” but somehow also very HomeGoods. We’re basically performing a months-long funeral for summer, complete with snacks and tartan blankets.
Still, there’s something oddly comforting about this seasonal slow fade. The world softens. The garden exhales, wipes off her makeup, drops her Spanks and says “You still think I’m beautiful, right Lambchop?” Even the most Type-A among us begin to accept that maybe it’s okay to let a few things go — a plant, a plan, an unrealistic personal standard. The leaves don’t apologize for turning brown; maybe we don’t have to apologize for needing a nap or an extra cup of coffee this time of year.
Even the small domestic rituals take on meaning. Lighting a candle becomes an act of reflection- (where the hell did I put those matches?) Sweeping the leaves off the porch feels symbolic. Hanging a wreath is less about décor and more about declaring, “I, too, have enough tasteful ribbon to endure the coming dark.” We make meaning where we can, and if that meaning comes in the form of hoarding Maple and Sweet Potato Flavored Sandwich Cookies from Trader Joe’s for my dogs, so be it.
There’s an itchy tenderness in the recognition that everything, from flowers to friendships, has a season. The Stoics were onto something: awareness of mortality doesn’t have to be morbid; it can make life richer. Knowing the candle will burn out makes its glow warmer. Knowing the mums will brown makes the color brighter while it lasts. Maybe the point isn’t to resist decay, but to participate in it gracefully — ideally while wearing a good sweater and holding a mug of Pumpkin Spice Latte under a sign that says “Gather.” Better yet, burn that sign in your firepit while holding a bottle that says “Bourbon.”
So I say: let the candles burn out, the soup simmer down, and the mums brown with dignity. Light a fire, sip something warm, and toast to the temporary. Because if we’re all going to fade anyway, we might as well do it wrapped in a cozy blanket that matches our throw pillows.
