That Trick of the Light

There is a certain quality of light on late-fall days that induces melancholy in me.  It is golden light but somehow seems a little thin.  It shines through the bare branches of the trees in the latter half of the afternoon but holds no warmth; its only promise is that the chill in the air will deepen, the darkness will set in early, the recent summer freshness of the earth will continue to brown.

It's odd, this light, and it's odd what it does to me.

I normally love the changing of the seasons.  I adore that crispness in the air that hearkens fall and alluring reminds me of turtlenecks and soft scarves, warm cups of coffee and the earthy scent of fallen leaves.  I like to rake and watch my children splashing in the red-orange-yellow piles. I like to know that the heat of summer has abated and to anticipate the coming snows. I relish putting on dark, rich colors like cranberry and chocolate brown. I luxuriate in the idea of wrapping myself in cozy sweaters and snuggling under blankets to read.

And yet, on an afternoon like today's, when it seems the only music that random selection provides to me is mournful, when the sky is a wan, half-hearted shade of blue, when my dearest friends all live in other states or have journeyed out of town, I cannot help but feel as washed out as the sky.

I long for something sharp and wonderful...

...For a glimpse of the stars such as one can only see while camping in the desert: intense crystals pulsing with promise against the endless depth of blackest night.

...Or for the taste of a new food: peppery hot and surprising in its fragrance.

...Or for the thunderclap of falling in love: that shock of warmth spreading outward from the belly that hits when one first acknowledges "I love you, I love you, I love you"--whether the object of that love is man or baby or woman or friend.

I am surrounded by love, of course. My children climbed into the bed this morning before six, insinuated themselves under the covers, draped themselves over me, curled their arms possessively around my neck, bickered over who would lie close enough to nuzzle my hair. My sleepy husband's bare feet rubbed my own as we made room for the small beings filled with the largest love.

It is not a literal lack on which this trick of light shines. It is a merely a soulful gap, a melancholy moment of emptiness fueled by the ambivalent breath of the wind that cuts across my face as I retrieve the mail.

It is the light, no doubt, that quickens poets to give wordful wings to their introspections.

It is the light that makes me wish that for a day, I could be bird or wind or light. Or, at the very least, poet.