Autumn has arrived. Cranberry crimson is slipping into the leaves previously hunter and kelly. The haunted yellow of dangling foliage tints a waning sun. Cool air brushes over bare shoulders, shivers and smiles in equal portions divided. Everything apple finds its way into displays of baked goods and savory offerings. The tumbler of ale hoisted aloft grows richer in spice, in heft, in mirth.
Something about this time of year always evokes hope for me. I always associated it with the turning of a new year, for many reasons. Not the least of my reasons was the beginning of each school year, to which I devoutly looked forward. A chance to shake off the languid reality of summer for the active reality of a new year, a new world, another place in time.
When I took my usual walk today, I noticed new sights and scents. Even now, the embers of the neighbor's bonfire (hi Ted) filter through my open windows and remind me how much I ache for a fireplace. Recalling the familiar duty of childhood: traveling downstairs in the winter to make sure the fire in the furnace was fed before sleep. The smell of apple, maple, hickory chunks sending plumes of fragrant smoke out of our chimney as I romped in snow.
The rattle of leaves as they dried against the wood from which they sprang, crackling as they ignite. Tiny pulses of heat from the heart of the flames, their shivering endurance the only light in the room. A warm cup of mulled cider, or a white hot chocolate. The yellowing paper of the book on the side table matched by the edges of each memory recalled through voices the radio has brought into the room year after year. An easy warmth, relaxing that goes bone deep. Old memories, smoothed by the flowing river of time, round into stones you can step on through the present. A soft night, that settles into your bones and brings you home.
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