On Saturday night, I was cleaning up the kitchen from dinner and Stevie was taking out the trash. He came back in the house and said, "Kris, you've got to stop what you're doing and come out here."
I stepped outside and whoa. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it.
It wasn't just cool - it was cold. It was like I had stepped out onto the dark porch and back into a memory, one from our days in Boston. Walking home from dinner in Harvard Square and snuggling up together as we meandered those cobblestone streets in the black night, the chilly autumn weather dancing all around our feet. It was wonderful and sweet and, wow, life was really simple then. Even though it didn't feel like it at the time.
And as I stood, barefooted on my own back porch, far far away from the life I journeyed in Cambridge, Massachusetts a few years ago, I was swept away in that memorable moment. Such a simple one. All because of the strikingly cold weather. It's enticing, what our senses can do for us.
Stevie and I just stood out there for a long while, feeling the hard porch wood beneath our feet and the cold enveloping all around. We took deep breaths and silently welcomed this old friend, this autumn chill signaling it's time. Time for knotty sweaters and mulled cider and crackling bonfires and apple picking and fan girl phenomena about all things pumpkin. Time for walks through Williams Sonoma with to-go cups from Starbucks to sniff out all the harvest recipes. Time for watching football in the living room, eating chili and knitting blankets that I will never finish. Time for Sunday afternoon naps and woolly socks and sloshing around in the crispy leaves. It's time for all of it. It's beginning again. Welcome, old friend. Have your way.