Chill

Julie Gillis

(circa 2010)

I could feel it in the air today, a distinctly different tone, note in the feel or fragrance or taste of the air. Coppery, like blood, not quite cold, but cool. Still a bit of wetness in the air, but it felt like summer was finally blowing away.
I watched the doppler today, envious that the storms picked up just east of us, over Houston.

The night drops much faster these days, and I enjoy that, enjoy the long shadows and the slightly cool air threatening to turn cold and mean.
I want to walk alone at night at times like this, walk alone in the dark wearing black, unseen, stalking what? But it feels like hunting and it feels good. That feels better than being cooped up inside waiting.

I like the cycle of death as it comes, death of leaves and small insects, of flowers. I like it just as I like the birth of them in spring.

It feels, right. Fall is the dying time.

We’ll be carving pumpkins soon and I will look forward to that night, with very special friends and with the children, taking sharp knives and cutting into hard but yielding skin. Smelling the deep dark rich smell of earth and heat and wet, touching pulp and eating the very seeds from inside.

We’ll roast the seeds and eat them and sit in the dark watching pumpkins lit by candles and it will feel ancient and new all at once.

That moment past, we’ll take children in, take them in from the chill and the real/illusion and put them in bed where they will hopefully dream of candy and witches and storms and they will count down the moments until the day when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest.

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