Northport, Alabama

Summer drifted into fall and crashed headlong into winter this week, with no regrets and no looking back.

The flannel sheets are on the bed; the sage green field jacket is hanging from its customary hook. Saucony tennis shoes have been replaced by Timberlands, and chenille abounds. Somewhere, perhaps in my dresser, there is a red plaid scarf — cashmere. With any luck, it still holds the dark, musky scent of perfume from the last time that I wore it. The first time.

In a season of death, there is a strange electricity in the air. In a season of endings, I have always found my beginnings.

So let the frost gather thick on the Alabama clay. Let the winter wind howl and the blue skies give way to slate. Everything I have ever loved passionately, intensely, came to me in the fall, borne on the back of summer’s crumbling promises. I don’t even question it anymore. I just sit back, sip my Earl Grey and wait.

Music: Fields of Gold by Sting (lyrics)

Favorite Pics: this one and this one by Judith Polakoff (yes, I am digging her work greatly right now.)