The sun is setting and the amber colored light of a mid-November sky baths my face with its almost non-existing heat. The wind runs briskly through the trees, shaking its autumn tinted leaves. The streets are deserted, everyone’s inside sitting in front of a crackling fire and warming up with mugs of hot herbal tea. Winter’s coming and, by the way the weather’s changing, I’m certain it’s going to be a violent one –cruel and full of wrath.
I walk through narrow alleys ̶ all brick buildings and flower-clad windowsills ̶ until I’m in the outskirts of town, the dimly lit houses far behind. The road is so familiar, the cracked pavement, the faded yellow stripes at the side, the tall dry grasslands embracing it, its every little detail buried deep in my mind, coming up only when evoked. This road is like a second home to me, in childhood I would ride my bike all the way to town just to get a small paper bag of lemon drops at Mrs. Spring’s candy store and now, at 28, I drag my feet along this cold humid floor at the crack of dawn to get to the public elementary school at the heart of town, where I’m a second grade science teacher –so much for MIT. This pavement was once fed by a red bicycle’s tires and now it lives off of my converse soles.