October isn't the most horrible time to be in the desert, but it might be the worst time
not
to be in New England. Mother's best memories of childhood were filed
away by seasons. In her growing-up corner of New England, each season
was felt in its fullest fury and celebrated for its brightest beauty;
October sparkled especially. She was sad that, come October, Pigeon
wouldn't expect the sweet smell of frost and sugar maples, or anticipate
the pleasure of crunching through leaves a foot deep.
And so she was especially thankful that Thanksgiving month, that he (and
she) had
been gifted such a brilliant dose of New England autumn that year. The
New England Grands had brought them out just in time for a proper
leafing. The crunch underfoot, the sugar in the air, the frost-bejeweled
pumpkin on the sunny stoop; it was all the same. Pleasant enough for
Mother to enjoy on her own, but newly wondrous when enjoyed through
Pigeon's eyes.
And so she was especially thankful that Thanksgiving month, that he (and
she) had
been gifted such a brilliant dose of New England autumn that year. The
New England Grands had brought them out just in time for a proper
leafing. The crunch underfoot, the sugar in the air, the frost-bejeweled
pumpkin on the sunny stoop; it was all the same. Pleasant enough for
Mother to enjoy on her own, but newly wondrous when enjoyed through
Pigeon's eyes.
Pigeon is blessed to have a mommy who writes so beautifully!
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