Autumn here is strange, and about as unseasonable as my grief. The urge to wrap myself in wool is strong. As is the urge for hot broth and baking pans and roasted roots. The weather simply won’t cooperate. It’s warm.
Not accustomed to the thirty-degree temperature differential, dawn to dusk, I bundled up last week, thinking: Now. Here. This. But I was nearly laughed back north to New York City (here, you call the place by its full name) as my boss informed my coworker, “This child is not ready for the south.” And there I was, stifling in my layers as the day veered tropical.
Yesterday was Sunday, chill and grey and damp; today we’re back to warm again. The trees are thinning, very slowly. Green leaves turn to yellow one by one, and linger before falling. They are not prepared for hibernation. Meanwhile, I’ve gone prematurely numb.
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