There is something about October. About the light that turns extra golden in the late afternoon. Something about the warmth of the sun and the cool of the air that lures smells of home-cooking, warmth, and habitation out from cracked windows and doors, yawning open for the last few lazy times before cold and hibernation set in.
As she bikes down the street her nose becomes acquainted with her new neighborhood. What she greets is so recognizable, it’s hard to remember that she’s thousands of miles from “home.” Thousands of miles away from where she came from, and yet the smells bring her right back. All the way back to Mr Rogers, and NPR in the kitchen while mom cooked dinner. Back to the crunch of the leaves underfoot as she trudged up the lawn from school with the neighbor’s kids. Back to times that felt precious, even in the living of them. Back to that feeling of complete faith in a foundation, in a door she could always open, in a hearth that was always warm.
There is something about October that reeks of the past. The kind of past that she craves to carry with her always, but only seems to surface with the turning of the leaves, the retreat of the sun, the chill in the air. The kind of past that sends her sniffing out that sense of home again.
But she isn’t craving any place in particular (that little green house at the end of town). This longing is not a longing made of emptiness, of widened eyes, cavernous heart, and outstretched, fumbling hands. Its a longing that is received and met as quickly as it is felt and expressed, a longing that is satiated immediately by the presence of itself.
october 20, 2013