So what was it that got me all maudlin on the walk home? [1] Weeds and dead leaves.
Weeds. And no, that that kind of weed. The kind that most people hate to find in their yard. Native flowers, that type. Specifically, the smell.
I'm four years old and we're living somewhere in Royal Oak. Out back of our townhome is an embankment with a train track running atop. It's spring, maybe summer, and us kids are playing on the embankment and track, waiting for the trains to come so we could watch them thunder by. I remember this only because of the smell of flowering weeds covering the embankment. That smell always brings me back to that place, that time.
Dead leaves. Not so many down here, but you can find them. And the sight and smell of those take me back to Brevard. [2]
Autumn. Past the explostion of color in late September/early October to late October/early November, when the leaves have turned all brown and dried and carpet the ground. The rustling crunching noise as you walk. Piles of brown dried leaves to jump into, signalling the oncoming of Halloween [3] in the county seat of Translyvania County (no joke!). Running with friends from house to house collecting sweets and gorging yourself sick by the next day.
I'm looking over the [4] letters [5] I've received over the past few days, growing sad at having to leave yet another place.
“You can never go home again.”
The weight of history is threatening to engulf me. It is time to move on.
I must.
If only it weren't so painful.
[4] /boston/2002/01/18/cert.letter.png
![[4] /boston/2002/01/18/cert.letter.png](/gemini.conman.org/boston/2002/01/18/cert.letter.png){kind=link}
![[5] /boston/2002/01/21/cert2.letter.png](/gemini.conman.org/boston/2002/01/21/cert2.letter.png){kind=link}