Today is perfect. Windy. A bit cooler. The leaves are starting to turn. I picture myself walking along an endless, leaf-covered path. I am wearing my favorite jeans, worn-in-worn-out tennis shoes, my 17 year-old, thick, red, wool LL Bean sweater. It has a few moth holes from when I lived in the creepy apartments that have now been condemned, but they give it character. Strange that I would have had one article of clothing for 17 years. The leaves smash and crack beneath my feet. I walk slowly, as always, and I don’t lift my feet very high. I don’t drag them, though, because I can’t stand the continual scrape, scrape, scrape of the gait of feet-draggers. I’d be smoking a clove if I felt better and drinking coffee from my travel cup.
I have this love for fall because it postpones the inevitability of winter with its too cold, too windy days. For now, though, I sit at my computer in a room upstairs that we have designated Andy’s room, and the wind is blowing through the huge pine tree outside my window; it makes a soft whisper that I can’t understand. The curtain occasionally sweeps across my arm and brings with it the scent of autumn. Fall is my favorite season: bonfires, football games, crunching leaves, and lattes. For some reason, it seems like the comforts of fall make up for its unruliness, but when winter comes there is nothing except a continual barrage of snow, ice, and gloom. Don’t get me wrong, today is gloomy as well, but I can look out my window and see brightly colored leaves, and I can walk out the doors and crunch them instead of crunching snow like I am bound to do in a few months. Today is just gloomy enough to be mysterious, intriguing.
Days like today give me confidence. I feel like I can make it. I feel like drinking a beer later with friends will only make it better. Porter, thick and mysterious like the day.