August turns to autumn, the air is as sharp as it is cool, this evening smells like my memories of this town. Dinner is peppery all-day chicken stew, crusty bread, the red and orange of a japanese maple (leaves falling across a shed roof thick with moss and broken bird nests), I can hear cattle from here.
I am taking a graduate-level course on sexuality, in the social work department. This is my first semester away from a community college and I throw myself into...this, and I still feel disconnected. I have two jobs and a child, why are my classmates so young? Mostly they're older than me.
I've been in this town through warm spring and turgid summer, autumn is an ending. It's a strange time to be a beginning. This is weather for tucking in, harvesting your last, covering your earth, settling your bets. It's a strange time to be a beginning.
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