begin again

This morning when I went out to get the paper, it smelled like fall. I hugged the yellow plastic bag to my chest like a hot water bottle. Filled with tiny type, it kept me warm on the short jaunt from front lawn to back door. It was the pleasant kind of cold. The put-on-your-favorite-sweatshirt cold. So I did. I came inside, put on my blue hoodie from Annie B, and ate oatmeal standing up while I read the newspaper.

Last night we needed a comforter out on the lawn. The conversation centered around the usual, but there was fresh anticipation and a feeling that this very well may be it. Only fall can bring such anticipation, such optimism. The crickets chirps are getting farther and farther apart. (Tonight there's one that's scratching his legs to his own syncopation, like he missed his entrance, or maybe he just doesn't care. He's fine being a bit off-beat.) The air outside is finally cooler than the air inside. At night I watch the roman shades breathe in and out, in and out. With each breath out, the man in the moon says hello.

There are three fresh peaches on the counter, at least there were before lunch. Their plum-colored fuzzy bellies covered with thumbprints to prove they pass the fresh test. One of them still has a couple of leaves on it. Together they look like a Cezanne still-life. Early autumn peaches always make me think of Val and Brigham City. She'd bring a box full the size of softballs from home to the Santa B. We'd make homemade peach ice cream and divy it up in the quad.

By early morning today my hoodie was off. Though fleeting, I loved the familiar feeling of the fuzzy inside and the drawstrings dangling on either side of my neck. They tempt me when I'm bored. Leaves have started to whirl up in the space between the garage and the backdoor.

The very best part: It's just the beginning.