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So I went home, for the last time. The next time I go "home" it will be to a strange new place, far from the cathedral of trees. I don't really feel anything at all about this, but that's not terribly surprising.
I'm glad, mostly, that I had one last fall there. The first thing I did when I got home on Friday was run to the edge of the woods and breathe in that strange rich organic air, the scent of cold and fallen leaves and fresh decay. Then I went inside and it smelled like home, a distinctive signature scent that smells like nothing else on earth. Olfactory bias. Scent memory is the strongest.
My nephew is nearly three and has only just mastered the terrible twos. The unconscious, selfish love of children is the strangest, most amazing thing. He adores me because I play animals with him and I sing with him and I spin him in the air. If only it were always that simple. Life would be happier, I think, but maybe not. I read somewhere that perfect is boring and it's the flaws we love. I think maybe that's true.
I went to church with my mother - my idea, oddly enough. I don't know why I need this, now. I don't know what I believe, if I believe in anything at all. I just know I need something, even if it's the ancient mindless rituals that bring a strange blind comfort. I like our minister, anyway; he spoke of dreams and baseball.
Sunday was bitter cold and the day began with hail; later on, when my father and I were in Oswego, we saw flakes of thick wet snow that melted on impact but which fell nonetheless. We looked over the lake, whitecapped and waving past the breakwall, water dark muddygreen. Storm water.
Felicity's on. Ohhh, dear, how I can relate to her. (Except for the still-with-asshole-Ben part. Though Noel is looking decidedly adorable and Ben is looking like the shithead he is. And is that some significant mutual lovin' I see floating between Felicity and Noel? Yeah. Thought so.)
I'm glad, mostly, that I had one last fall there. The first thing I did when I got home on Friday was run to the edge of the woods and breathe in that strange rich organic air, the scent of cold and fallen leaves and fresh decay. Then I went inside and it smelled like home, a distinctive signature scent that smells like nothing else on earth. Olfactory bias. Scent memory is the strongest.
My nephew is nearly three and has only just mastered the terrible twos. The unconscious, selfish love of children is the strangest, most amazing thing. He adores me because I play animals with him and I sing with him and I spin him in the air. If only it were always that simple. Life would be happier, I think, but maybe not. I read somewhere that perfect is boring and it's the flaws we love. I think maybe that's true.
I went to church with my mother - my idea, oddly enough. I don't know why I need this, now. I don't know what I believe, if I believe in anything at all. I just know I need something, even if it's the ancient mindless rituals that bring a strange blind comfort. I like our minister, anyway; he spoke of dreams and baseball.
Sunday was bitter cold and the day began with hail; later on, when my father and I were in Oswego, we saw flakes of thick wet snow that melted on impact but which fell nonetheless. We looked over the lake, whitecapped and waving past the breakwall, water dark muddygreen. Storm water.
Felicity's on. Ohhh, dear, how I can relate to her. (Except for the still-with-asshole-Ben part. Though Noel is looking decidedly adorable and Ben is looking like the shithead he is. And is that some significant mutual lovin' I see floating between Felicity and Noel? Yeah. Thought so.)