DST ending on the first frost-warning morning. Unintentionally woke up at dawn, over an hour ahead of my alarm, giving me time to dust off my wool coat and make a proper cup of coffee.
My street is still littered with banana peels and empty packets that once held goo consumed by people who couldn’t stop running long enough to piss or eat. We watched them pass and others cheer but did neither ourselves, content to nurse our hangovers from warmth behind glass.
We drank Saturday away in Prospect Park while celebrating another union of friends on what now seems to have been the last temperate day. Cait wore her mother’s polka dot dress and I wore an orange V-neck sweater over a blue also-dotted tie with my hair pomaded against my scalp. Don and Betty Draper, several said. We just smiled, trading nips from one of two flasks I was given for my 30th birthday.
On the counter the first batch of fall hard cider is bubbling as tiny motes of yeast convert sugars to alcohol. I sip my coffee and contemplate pants and the wearing thereof, the day, the sunshine, the week, the oncoming bite of winter on my cheeks and lips.
People seem to regret how winter makes introverts of us all and forces us under quilts and onto couches, sarcophagi of body heat with two beady eyes glaring out angrily at Netflix reruns. However for me, October was so many things crammed into so very little time. Give me a couch and a mug of something steaming and a window to stare through. Give me a moment to contemplate and wonder, to rub my hands, to have idle fantasies of chopping wood somewhere or kicking leaves from my path.
Give me winter and it’s promise of eventual spring, but mostly for now give me a chance to take stock at a season’s change as the small corner of the world in which I reside feels a chill and reaches for another blanket in the night.