Today, while standing out talking to the Schwann’s delivery man, I felt a cold chill against my spine. The sun was still hot on my face, but that little chill breeze spoke to me of fallen leaves, crisp nights, clear skies and teenage angst behind a tattered building at church.
Fall’s always been a magical time for me. As a child, the season’s change meant camping in North Georgia, camouflage and walking sticks. Carving walking sticks has always been a favorite pastime of mine. Dogwood makes a great walking stick, with fascinating multicolored streaks if you so desire.
In my high school years, it meant breaking out my favorite leather trench coat and being moody. I tried to be angsty, but honestly, I was too happy a kid to pull it off. I did moon over one guy, though. Oh, I had such a crush. But he had a crush on my best friend (no, he loved her. With undying devotion.) So we would sit behind a dilapidated building behind the church sanctuary, he would talk abuot her, and I would commiserate, though I never told him who I was mooning over. Such tragedy.
He eventually married a woman with a kid.
Fall was always the time my imagination has soared the most. From the days of imagining my wolf familiar running alongside my bus, or me spreading my wings and escaping from the school playground bullies, to my much darker fantasies of torture and rape. Fall has always stroked my right-brained tendencies.
This fall’s light change, and ever-so-slight temperature shift, has done it again. I think that’s why I’ve been finding it so easy to write. It’s just the right season.
It’s my time to write.