It’s a smell, or maybe the memory of a smell, that instantly transports you back. Crunching leaves and pumpkin guts, the chance of something really spooky happening for once. For real. The thrill. When fall stands at the door, a little late to the invitation, clutching bags of gold and copper and the first bits of frost in its thin fingers. It’s the crunch of the leaves on the path to the same house you’ve come home to a million times before, but nevertheless invigorating. The chimes playing their welcome tune on the air as each foot rustles leaves that have gone on for the season, blanketing the earth against the coming freeze. It’s the warmth of a thousand nights in the glow. Laughing, telling stories, or simply existing within the walls with people you couldn’t possibly love more than you do, even when you argue. It’s the safety, the reprise, from a world that’s been growing increasingly more mean since you were ten. An open door. The weight of it all lifting off of you with the ease of a “hello.” An innumerable amount of times you’ve walked that path in its evolution, always feeling that same levity. Coming home. Safe.
It’s different now and the world seems to shift. The steps are no longer light and the chimes ring differently than before. The path is both long and short and part of you never wants to reach that end. Because it occurs to you that it wasn’t the path, or the house, the walls or the rooms that guided you to peace, but the people inside. And they’re gone. And the fall is suddenly too warm…
