The Movement of Time
It was the last night of summer. I celebrated by jumping into a lake with fourteen friends at midnight. Our shrieks echoed across the water, to the houses on the other side of the lake. The light from their windows provided our only illumination as we stumbled down the steps on to the pier. Throwing off their clothes, their bodies pale in the light, my friends throw each other in, some clinging to the dock, others sprinting past me.
This is my farewell to summer, abandoning my inhibitions with my clothes on the dock and plunging into the murky water. I hate being cold, but at least this is by choice. It’s my moment of defiance before nine months of winter come and settle in my bones. A moment of “waitwaitnotyet – “ as my mind teeters like my toes, on the brink of uncertainty. I let go of summer and plunge into the lake. Arms splayed, knees bent, faces stretched into a grimace, like the most unattractive coming-of-age movie scene ever. The water is dark and freezing. I yell obscenities as I surface, moving my body as fast as I can.
A week later and it is autumn, or so I’ve been told. New England has always played tricks on my tropical mind. Snow in October, cold rain in June and sweltering afternoons in September. New Haven is sending me mixed signals, with muggy evenings and bright brisk mornings that you can feel on your bare ankles. The autumn equinox has come and gone, and we are beginning to tilt away from the sun. I imagine a group of people standing at the intersection of Chapel and York, clutching their pumpkin spice lattes and autumnal scarves, their bodies tilting at an angle to the ground. Can I say fall is here yet? My friends rush past me to greet it, and yet I can’t find it in their banjo music or school supplies or favourite sweaters. Discovering the movement of time is such a personal thing. It’s in the slight breeze at my shirt collar; in the tawny colour of apple cider from the Yale Farm; in the rich tweeds and crisp blazers of fall fashion.
I hate being cold but I am wooed by this New England fall, like a small child taken by surprise at the russet leaves underfoot.
This is my farewell to summer, abandoning my inhibitions with my clothes on the dock and plunging into the murky water. I hate being cold, but at least this is by choice. It’s my moment of defiance before nine months of winter come and settle in my bones. A moment of “waitwaitnotyet – “ as my mind teeters like my toes, on the brink of uncertainty. I let go of summer and plunge into the lake. Arms splayed, knees bent, faces stretched into a grimace, like the most unattractive coming-of-age movie scene ever. The water is dark and freezing. I yell obscenities as I surface, moving my body as fast as I can.
A week later and it is autumn, or so I’ve been told. New England has always played tricks on my tropical mind. Snow in October, cold rain in June and sweltering afternoons in September. New Haven is sending me mixed signals, with muggy evenings and bright brisk mornings that you can feel on your bare ankles. The autumn equinox has come and gone, and we are beginning to tilt away from the sun. I imagine a group of people standing at the intersection of Chapel and York, clutching their pumpkin spice lattes and autumnal scarves, their bodies tilting at an angle to the ground. Can I say fall is here yet? My friends rush past me to greet it, and yet I can’t find it in their banjo music or school supplies or favourite sweaters. Discovering the movement of time is such a personal thing. It’s in the slight breeze at my shirt collar; in the tawny colour of apple cider from the Yale Farm; in the rich tweeds and crisp blazers of fall fashion.
I hate being cold but I am wooed by this New England fall, like a small child taken by surprise at the russet leaves underfoot.