I’m not like you. You’re dreaming of bright skies and blue waters. I’m driving through this mist and this gray with my windshield wipers on intermittently and I stop to watch this murder of crows hop around the bare branches of a dying Silver Maple. Silver Maples don’t just die one winter, they die over a decade, or more. In that, they’re like me. And they’re like you. Except that you’re wishing for a beach and a palm tree and a colorful drink and I’m driving in this sepia scene and I’m happy. You’re hurrying to close things down and seal things up and drive or fly to where the sterile southern sunshine awaits. In a weak moment I might dream in color, of a far away landscape with olive trees and a rugged coast, or of a wide, white sand beach with a lingering sunset casting soft, low light over a billion broken shells. But this is not a weak moment. This is just the second week of November, and while everyone is wishing to be somewhere else I’m just glad to be here. With the leaves stuck to the sides of my car and my breath hanging in the air and those crows in the distance and a tractor sweeping the last row of those summery beans. My maturation isn’t chasing a never-ending summer or the brightest of skies and the warmest of suns. It’s just being content to watch this scene change from bright to dull and struggling to decide which is my favorite.
