Autumn in New York

This late summer (recently deceased) I spent six weeks in London working at my company's head office. It was an easy adjustment, and for the most part being American is less novelty than the norm. But once in a while a curious driver or shop clerk might hear me speak and ask,

American?

Yes.

Where from?

New York.

Ah, New York. I wish I was in New York.

That feeling I can hear them reaching for in their voice is a familiar one. I came here with it and now, a dozen years on, I am constantly chasing it. But I always seem to find it again when the first Autumn weekend arrives, with its sweet and foreboding morning chill, coupled by the most blinding sun. Another year is escaping us and soon the light will be gone. We forsake the shore, the forks, the tinsel of summer flings.  We come closer together.  Now we are New Yorkers, and happy to be home.

But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn...*

Breathe it in. Fill your lungs with it. That feeling is back. It's good to live it again.

 

*When I Heard the Close of the Day, Walt Whitman