the tears don’t hurt, but the ache does

 

I love Florida. I love the adventure of being away from home, of studying the Bible like I always wanted, of meeting so many new people, of tasting the little nuances of Southern culture. I love the times when I get up to go running at six in the morning and can just barely tell that the air is getting cooler. I love the freak thunderstorms, the sunsets over the lake, the lizards and toads that are everywhere, the word “y’all,” and the arguments I get into over whether to call soft drinks “sodas,” “pops,” or “cokes.” (It’s pop all the way, people.)

But I miss home. Especially home in October.

I remember driving down the Klickitat gorge to meet my best friend for class on Monday mornings—keeping a wary eye out for deer in the road and admiring the blur of yellowing leaves on the hillsides. I remember waiting outside the grange hall every afternoon at 3 o’ clock to rehearse for Twelfth Night. I remember the transition from the crisp warm Indian summer air to the wet chilliness of the fall rains. All of these pictures from last year and the year before come with so much emotional and sensory attachment for me that I ache to be there again.

Sometimes, missing the entire season of fall back home is one of the hardest things about living in the opposite corner of the continent. There are a few other northerners in my midst who know what I mean, but otherwise, the Floridians just look at me and say, “This is fall.”

No… no it isn’t.