I just returned from spending the Thanksgiving holiday in Illinois. I could not wait to drive south, counting the hours. Tennessee is becoming my home.
November is an ambivalent month here. Not sure whether to hang onto the last throes of the summer, or to let it all go in hopes for what is waiting in the turn of the year.
Many of the fall colors are still bright, and an abundance of green remains below the tree line amongst the shrubs. Tennessee does not want to relinquish itself to the chill of winter, resisting fiercely as the night temperatures fall into the 20's and 30's, still pulling itself up by the bootstraps into the 50's when the sun is high.
Chicago, however, has given herself over to the voice of the wind whistling through a field of corn cut down to its roots. She lets out a dignified sigh as the leafblowers and fires hum and burn the last signs of summer away. There is no turning back now. She can only move forward, braving the months ahead, closing her eyes until the moss periscopes rise up in the spring.
I am November in Tennessee. Taking each day slowly, cautiously, wincingly, timidly. Searching frantically for the green that will inevitably take its leave. Planting flowers in the cold, yet still separable, soil.
I envy Illinois for her courage to ride with the wind and keep it at her back.
