The brick-arched doorway houses two twin wooden doors. It smells of early-summer piss. Under the marquee, a small blue and white sign reads, "Air Conditioned." But it's a lie: the club will be sweltering.

The trees are a riot of color as I drive past the grounds of the Episcopal Church in my town. The field that becomes the annual pumpkin patch worthy of inclusion in a Peanuts special is heartbreakingly bare. Every fall since I moved to this New England town over twenty years ago, the arrival of the pumpkins has been a seasonal passage.

Last year on my 27th birthday I wrote myself some advice. I told myself to stop comparing my life to those around me. I told myself to start living and stop worrying so much about what the future would hold. Today, I am 28th and I’m trying to figure out where the year went and what I was doing that whole time. Did I follow my own advice? I’m not sure.