Monday, November 22, 2010
In my mind, November is, and might always be, the memory of a Thanksgiving visiting friends in a town along the New York side of the Hudson River. A beautiful day through the car windows, with that low, thin winter sunlight, black tree branches scratching the white sky, the slate gray river passing down below. We were early and stopped the car on the shore for a little while-we had to press our shoulders against the car doors to open them against the wind. It ripped our coats open, shoved us deeper into the park than we wanted to go, jerked our hats sideways, smacked our cheeks. We lasted ten minutes, November slamming the doors shut for us as we stumbled back in.
Here in Florida, November opens windows, moves the trees just a little, like off-hand, gentle "hellos". The low sun lights up leaves, idling there calmly. The air steps back, doesn't drop on you like the heat of spring and summer and half of fall. It's still. After eleven years, still new, and strange. And green, very green.