Dear Pumpkin Spice,
Hello, Beautiful. It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of your company. I hope you have been well the past 10 months. I have missed you, and I forgive you for the hurt you caused by leaving me.
I recognize our love is fleeting. You are too free-spirited to be tied down, and I get that. Our time together will be fierce and passionate, but brief. You shine too brightly to burn year round.
No one understands our love. They mock our bond and tease us mercilessly. I don’t care what they think, Pumpy, you and I are in this together. I will defend you in lattes and champion you in cookies. I love your muffins, I adore your cheesecake. I will lick your yogurt off my spoon.
Pumpkin Spice cereal, oh how brilliant you are. And the pie . . . oh, the pie! My first true love, my childhood crush. The only way I can stay connected to you when you are off on adventures during the other seasons, doing whatever it is that you do. Do you travel? Do you hibernate? Do you sit in an office, thinking of other things to infiltrate? We may never know.
I saw you pop up in Bailey’s Irish Cream last week. Very smart. Pumpkin Spice and alcohol. Is there nothing you can’t do, my love?
Wait. I may have spoken too soon. I draw the line at Pumpkin Spice Peeps. Even you can’t save Peeps. They’re just bad, don’t waste your time trying.
When the haters come for us with their taunts and their memes and their pitiful parody videos, we won’t care. We will stand tall, hand in . . . um, spice? And we will declare our love for all to hear. Pumpkin Spice is here, and it is unafraid! Rain down your cinnamon and cloves—or whatever it is you are made of, I’m not actually sure—on the heads of all who seek to destroy you. They just don’t understand.
They may try to silence us with false claims of Pumpkin Spice toilet paper, and Pumpkin Spice yeast infection cream. We know they don’t exist. And if they did, I would buy them anyway, because my love for you knows no bounds (except the aforementioned Peeps, because ew).
Let them denounce us, and call us basic. If loving you makes me basic, I don’t want to be . . . elaborate? (or whatever the opposite of basic is). When I place you to my lips and drink you in, you fill me with joy, and pumpkin, and spice. Well, maybe not pumpkin. I’m still not exactly clear on the role of the pumpkin in you. But definitely joy, and spice—and, of course, love.
I have a confession to make. I had a fling with Salted Caramel. I couldn’t resist its mocha goodness and I had a moment of weakness. You are still my one true love, but Salted Caramel was good, babe, I can’t deny it. I hope you will forgive my transgression. It was just a drink, I don’t love it like I love you. It didn’t give me a pie.
Soon, the time will come when you must go. Your departure causes the leaves to shrivel, snow to fall, and my arch nemesis—Peppermint—to appear. I will savour you while I can, and enjoy your . . . uh . . . seriously, what the hell are you made of?
And as you slip away, drifting out with the snow, your warm orange replaced by brilliant red, you will hear me whisper, “Pumpkin Spice . . . next year, bring brownies!”