Cortland, Macintosh and Tweed
“You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right.” ~Maya Angelou
I’m homesick, ridiculously so at that. Another one of those rarities that tend to just sneak up on me and much like my current infatuation, it’s been eating at me and bumming me out. The last time I felt this way, I was standing on a street corner (in my best clear heels, no less) between Goya and Sol, crying to Peg that Cortes – motherfucking – Ingles didn’t sell shoes above a size 10 and what kind of motherfucking store, doesn’t sell shoes above a size 10. That pretty much sums up the conversation in which I was adamant about being brought back to a normal fucking place that has shoes above a size 10, a fine place called
I don’t feel nearly as strongly about it as I did then. I’m not across the
It’s just that it’s Fall. Fall means tweeds, apple picking (the title up there are my two favorite types of apples. You learn that sort of shit when you live in Upstate), Adirondack foliage, hot chocolate at football games, long underwear under a Halloween costume, Woodbury Commons sales, apple cider donuts, newness and that smell. The smell of fall gets me every time. It makes me weepy and longing for my mother’s house and hiking and the simplicity of things. And though it rarely happens, right now I’m aching for that, yearning for just a solid week at home.
Come November when it’s a balmy 67 degrees on Election Day and this winter when I don’t have to think about shoveling a damn thing, I’ll appreciate living here and knowing that I got exactly what I wanted, so really, can I complain? During my next venture home, I’ll be slapped with the painstaking reality that I can’t just go out and enjoy four glasses of wine and get home via my own two feet or a metro and that there’s not a damn thing to do while you’re there. But for now, until I can finally get home again, just allow me to miss it.