Longing for Home.

I’ve had a surplus of time in the car lately, an excess amount of pondering opportunities. Lingering on old conversations, remembering futile details; pathetic attempts to put my mind at rest while I stare out the glass. Blackberry stains on pallid nightgowns, cedar chips, rusted porch swings, inhaling cigarette smoke, Russian maple trees-what I would give to smell those exceptional leaves, blanketing senses in dark showers, typewriters in gloomy basements, tart lemon squares, heavy silver, splintered board walks. Fortunately, my apartment is becoming more of a home and less of a refuge for aluminum paint cans and thick brushes. In addition, this means less time on the road, less brooding. It’s strange to me that I’ve begun to associate that secure, reprieve feeling with my pane-abundant residence, I’ve actually begun to long for it. Throughout a knotted schedule of University and work, I find myself smiling at intermittent times; my ambition hasn’t faltered.

I’m at such a unique place in my life, an extremely different state of mind than last autumn. But the leaves are losing color once more, regardless of my request for constant auburn vegetation. Last November, I stood an arm’s length apart from a dear friend, my tousled hair interlaced in his fingers. We held sincere conversations, but sadly I can’t recall what was said. “I’ll miss you,” I’m sure, was recurring in our dialogue, but in all honesty I can’t be sure. I believe he walked fourteen steps away from me, yes it was fourteen. I remember snowflake teeth, and scarlet cheeks so rich against his pale skin. “Let’s fly south for the winter, love.” was all I could manage to declare as farewell words.